Secrets and Lies
by Miss Becky
Summary: Now Complete. Since the failed coup, El has found a measure of peace, living a quiet life as a mariachi. Until one night a man in black enters his cantina, and El discovers that everything he knows is very wrong.
1. Chapter 1

Secrets and Lies

Chapter 1

A Rude Awakening

Disclaimer: The only things I own regarding OUATIM are the DVD, the score, and a poster. I'm not making anything off this fic, so if you are a lawyer, please keep on going. Nothing to see here.

Feedback: Is always welcome.

Author's Note: Like most fics I write, I have only a vague outline for this story. Where it goes is completely up to the characters. The only thing I know for certain is that it's going to be an interesting ride. So let's get going.

* * *

The cantina was crowded, even for a Saturday night. El had to be careful as he wove his way among the tables. Women who smiled at him now would get really pissed off if he bumped into them and knocked over their drinks. And then the tips wouldn't be so great, and the manager would yell at him and threaten his job. So all in all, it was a good idea to pay attention to where he was going. 

He smiled down at a young woman who was staring at him with a glazed combination of lust and tequila. He allowed his steps to slow so he could look her in the eye as he sang a few lines. The woman flushed and giggled, but did not once break the eye contact.

El gave her a half-bow and moved on. He was very good at picking out which members of the audience wanted a more intimate connection, and which ones were there only because they had nowhere else to be. Over the past few months, he had learned to recognize the repeat customers, and he was even on friendly terms with some of them. Most of the people who came to the cantina, however, were simply anonymous faces.

The song he was playing had been Carolina's favorite. Once it would have hurt him terribly to hear the music again. To sing it in front of strangers would have been unconceivable. But that had been before Marquez and the coup. Now he sang the song every Friday and Saturday night, and the ache in his chest was barely noticeable.

He supposed that was what three years could do for you. As the cliché went, time apparently did heal all wounds.

He passed a table full of smoking businessmen without slowing down. The stage was many steps behind him now, and he needed to head back soon if he was to be under the spotlight for the big finale.

Yet he found himself stopping behind the table with the businessmen. The cantina was dark and it was hard to see through the smoke hanging in the air, but he suddenly thought he had just seen a familiar face.

There. In the back corner.

Damn. Time had run out. He had to turn back. Quickly he pivoted on one foot and headed back for the stage. He leaped up the stairs and stepped out under the spotlight, still singing. A few more notes, and the song ended.

The audience applauded. El smiled and bowed, accepting their praise.

But his eyes remained on the figure in the corner.

There were only two songs remaining in his set. He began the first one, obscurely grateful that it was an upbeat number. The faster tempo allowed him to pace the stage without anyone being the wiser – they all thought he was having a good time. In truth, however, he was nervous as hell. He sang loudly and smiled at the women, but his attention was on the man sitting in the corner.

The audience clapped appreciatively. El spoke into the microphone. "This is for all the ladies. Good night."

The final song seemed to last forever. When it was finished at last, he bowed one more time, then went backstage, hurrying down the steps. He armed the sweat from his forehead and dodged the compliments of the staff who were there waiting for him. He knew he had performed well tonight. Of course he had. The cantina was small, but his reputation was well known. People came from miles all around in order to hear him sing.

Usually he hung around backstage for a while, waiting for the audience to disperse. Most of the older people left when he had finished his set; the late evening belonged to the young people of the town and their own breed of music. Tonight, however, he hastened to re-enter the cantina.

Only fifteen minutes had passed since he had left the stage, but already the cantina had morphed into a different place. Pounding rock music now filled the room. Young people danced and swayed on the floor. The lights were even dimmer than before. A haze of smoke hung over the tables.

Several people tried to stop him as he made his way through the room. He smiled vaguely at them all, but did not stop to talk.

The man in the corner was alone. He was dressed in black, and despite the poor lighting, he wore sunglasses. A glass half-filled with soft amber liquid sat beside his left hand. As El watched, he raised the glass to his mouth and drank, then set it down again.

El could hardly believe it. Three years had passed. He had allowed himself to believe that the events of the coup were far behind him. He had allowed himself to think he was finally safe.

He saw now how wrong he had been.

He walked right up to the table, deliberately bumping it with his hip. The man in black did not move, or otherwise acknowledge his presence. His right hand was in his lap, hidden from sight, El noticed.

He sat down in the chair opposite the one currently in use. "Sands."

The CIA officer smiled thinly. "El." He raised his glass in a toast. "Fancy meeting you here."

"What are you doing here?" El demanded. He did not like being unable to see Sands' right hand. More worrying was the fact that Sands was even here at all. What did the man want? What kind of crazy scheme did he have in mind now? Had he come to ask for El's help yet again?

"Well, that's very simple," Sands drawled. He knocked back the last of his drink. "I'm here to kill you."

El blinked. He told himself that he shouldn't really be surprised. After all, why else would Sands be here?

Nonetheless, the words came as a nasty shock. The attempted coup was in the past, dead and buried. He had a life now. He was not a killer anymore. He was only a mariachi, as he had always wanted to be. It was not fair that Sands should find him now and take away his hard-won peace.

"Why?" he managed.

"Well, why not?" Sands grinned. He reached up and took off his sunglasses. El stared into his dark eyes, eyes very much like his own, he realized with some shock, except that Sands' eyes were completely devoid of even the concept of pity.

"Bang," Sands whispered, and pulled the trigger.

And right on cue, El woke up.

* * *

He sat up with a groan, wincing slightly as he pressed his hand to his lower back. It was a quarter to six, and the alarm clock was set to go off in fifteen minutes. He slapped at it, turning it off. No sense in trying to go back to sleep now. 

Rubbing his chin, he rose naked from the bed. He yawned and stretched, wincing again at the ache in his back. He felt tired and unrested. After three years he was tired of dreaming the same dream, or variations thereof. Some nights it was Cucuy who came to kill him. Sometimes it was Armando Barillo. Often it was Marquez. But most of the time, for reasons he could not fathom, it was Sands.

He walked over to the window and yanked open the heavy drapes. Bright September sunlight streamed into the room, and he blinked under the onslaught. Like the recurring dream, here was another thing that he could not bring himself to accept. It still felt strange to sleep during the day and work at night.

He walked into the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the shower. The dream had made him feel unsettled, like his skin didn't fit right. He was glad he had woken up fifteen minutes early. He planned to spend the extra time standing under a long, hot shower.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, he was walking into the cantina. He didn't own a car. He liked the simple exercise of walking to work. The sun was only starting to think about setting, and wavy heatlines rose from the pavement. His black mariachi outfit was uncomfortably warm, so that the cool air inside the cantina was very welcome. 

A few people hailed him as he entered through the back door, but not many. Most did not even know his name. He was just the mariachi who played on the weekends. When his set was over, and during the rest of the week, he was just the bouncer.

It was better that way, he had decided long ago. The fewer people who knew his name, the easier it would be to slip away in the middle of the night. He was under no illusions. _They_ had found him once before. They could find him again. But this time he would not make the same mistakes. He allowed himself no attachments, no friends, no one who could be hurt because of him. He did his job here and he was good, and that was all that mattered.

Or so he told himself. Lying awake in bed, huddled under the covers to block out the noon sun, he was forced to be honest himself. And the simple truth was that the years since the attempted coup had been very lonely ones. He enjoyed being a mariachi again, but he had no friends. He performed alone every night. Quino and Campa were long dead. And after the coup he had parted ways with Fideo and Lorenzo and asked them not to try and find him. He did not even know where they were, these days. They might be in the same little town he had found them in. Or they might be in Los Angeles.

And there had been no women. Not even a messy fuck in a nameless hotel. He held Carolina's memory sacred in his mind. He would not be untrue to her. There would never be another for him.

Alone in his dressing room – which was the size of a very small closet – he stared into the mirror, wondering about the man he saw in the glass. That man wore an outfit with glittering silver chains and a red cummerbund. That man had dark hair down to his shoulders. That man had bottomless eyes.

It was those eyes that disturbed El the most. He was not sure when it had happened, this slow drifting from reality. The image staring back at him looked like half a man, albeit a well-dressed one. But when exactly had the man in the mirror become a ghost?

He almost preferred not to know. It was simpler that way.

* * *

Tonight the cantina was full. It was Saturday, and the young people of the town were eager to spend their money and dance with total strangers they would later take into their beds. El had nothing in common with them. He had never been as carefree as they were. He had never spent money as freely as they did. He had never slept with a woman one night, and then come back for her friend the next night. 

Nonetheless, the young people and their money kept the cantina in business. Their patronage meant the manager could pay El to stand on stage two nights a week and sing his mariachi songs, to the amusement of that younger generation. Some nights they jeered at him and his traditional music. Other nights they seemed in a happier mood, and they smiled and clapped eagerly.

Tonight was one of the good nights. Within moments of stepping onstage, he had them right where he wanted them. They clapped along with the opening song, stomping their boots and singing the chorus with him. _Cancíon del Mariachi_ was a crowd-pleaser, and singing it made El feel good. The song reminded him of simpler days, when he had truly been nothing but a mariachi.

The ringing notes of the song had just died away when he realized that his days of dreaming had come to an end.

Seated in the back corner, almost hidden by smoke and the dim lighting, was a solitary figure.

He bowed in response to the audience applause, but he kept his eyes on the figure in the back. He told himself not to be stupid, but he knew deep in his heart that the man was here for him.

He always walked among the audience, although usually not until halfway through the set. Tonight he fought the urge to go wandering earlier, just so he could see the man in the corner more clearly. He was not allowed to show any signs of nervousness. If he broke from routine now, the man in the corner would know, and then things might get real ugly, real fast.

It was not easy, though. El had performed in front of drunken crowds before, American hecklers, and a busload of Japanese tourists with their cameras. All of that paled in comparison to tonight's show. Standing still on the stage and singing about lost love while the man in the corner stared at him was one of the hardest things he had ever done.

At last he reached the point in the show when he could walk around. He gripped his guitar tightly, wishing vainly that he was armed. He had mentioned once to the manager that it might be a good joke for him to walk onto the stage wearing two pistols. The manager had given him the blank stare of one who lacked even a rudimentary sense of humor, and El had never brought it up again.

Right now he would settle for a nice knife, he thought wistfully. Anything sharp. Anything at all, in fact. Just something to heft in his hand. Something to make him feel slightly better about the unnerving stare coming from that back corner.

He worked his way through the crowd, avoiding the waitresses with their trays of beer bottles, and the grasping hands of the young girls. He could see the man in the corner a little better now.

The man was not big, which meant it was not Cucuy. He wore sunglasses and dark clothing. He was smoking, but he had no ashtray, and he was letting the ashes fall carelessly onto the floor. In fact, his table was completely bare; no bottle or glass marred the clean surface. Even the centerpiece was gone, although El could not guess where it had disappeared to.

He had gone as far as he could. It was time to return to the stage and finish the song. Reluctantly El turned his back on the man who would not stop staring at him, and headed back for the spotlight.

* * *

When the set was over, he lingered awhile in his dressing room before going out. The walls shook with a heavy bass beat. Out in the cantina the rock and roll would be nearly deafening, but back here it was nothing but muffled noise. El stared hard at his reflection and allowed his eyes to drop to the bulge on his hip. 

Except when he was onstage, he was always armed.

Not that he had ever needed the gun here. No one entered his room without his permission. Even the manager gave him some space. After all, he was the best bouncer the cantina had ever had, and he brought in business every night. Occasionally he had to use his fists on a particularly rough or drunken customer, but those times were rare. He had never had to resort to the gun.

Yet he had always known he would need it. Even before the dreams had begun, he had known. He had said farewell to Fideo and Lorenzo on a dusty highway outside Culiacan, but he had known that it was not over. He was El Mariachi. For him, it would never be over.

He sighed and raked the hair out of his eyes. Time to go meet his accuser. He hoped he could send the man on his way with a minimum of fuss, but he had to admit that it did not seem likely.

The cantina was darker than before. Smoke fogged the air. El grimaced and waved a hand in front of his face. Music thumped in his chest. A few women tried to dance with him as he walked past, but he ignored them all.

The man in the corner had not moved. He had finished his cigarette, but he had not ordered a drink, or any food. He just sat there, calmly waiting. Expecting his visitor.

El walked straight up to the table and sat down in the lone empty chair. "Sands."

The man smiled, a ghostly echo of his dream. "El Mariachi. What's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?"

"What are you doing here?" His heart was racing. After three years of dreaming of this moment, it had finally arrived. Someone had finally come to kill him.

Sands sat his chair casually, turned slightly sideways. His right hand was hidden, just like it always was in the dream. The sunglasses obscured his eyes, making it hard for El to tell just what he was thinking.

"Well, I heard a rumor you were here in town for a few sold-out shows, and I just had to see for myself if it was true." Sands smirked. "Whaddaya know. It looks like the grapevine got one right for a change."

The words sent a chill spike into El's gut. If rumors were flying, then it was only a matter of time before they found him.

Suddenly feeling ill, he looked wildly around the cantina. Maybe they were already here. Maybe Sands was the diversion, and by sitting here he had allowed them to surround him.

However, it did not take long to ascertain that Sands had come alone. More confident now, El tapped his fingers on the scarred tabletop. "So why tell me?"

"Oh, well, see, that's where it gets a little dicey," Sands said. "For an answer to your question – and to all your questions – I suggest you come with me." His voice was light and oddly modulated. It was the voice of someone with questionable sanity, El now knew.

He had never forgotten that meeting at the cantina in Culiacan. Of all the things that had happened to him over the years, his encounter with Sands was one of the strangest. Now it was happening all over again. Sands wanted to lead him by the nose and he wanted nothing to do with the man. "I am not going anywhere," he said. "I have a job to do. Already I am late." He started to stand up.

"El the bouncer," Sands said. He managed to make the three words sound pornographic. "So how's that going? You enjoy sending underage kids back home until they can get a real fake ID?"

El refused to rise to the bait. "You know," he said, "it is my right to throw anyone out, if I think they are causing trouble."

Sands' smile grew even thinner. "Why El – I can still call you that, can't I? – I never knew you were so vulgar. Threatening an innocent man and all."

"You were never innocent," El growled. He would never forgive Sands for his involvement with the coup, and the horrible events of that day.

"Well, that's questionable," Sands said. He sat back in his chair. "However, right now I don't have the time to discuss it. And neither do you." The dry click of a gun being cocked was perfectly audible over the pounding music and shouting voices of the dancers. "Why don't we take a walk?"

"Now who is making threats?" El glanced about, looking for help. No one caught his eye, however. As always, he was alone in this. He scowled at Sands, hoping the man did not realize this. With any luck, Sands would think everyone who worked at the cantina was his close buddy, ready and willing to defend him to the death. "You know I am not going anywhere with you."

"I kinda thought you would say that," Sands replied. He sounded thoughtful. "It's a shame, really. Now we have to do it the hard way." He shook his head, making a "tsk tsk" noise. "Just look at all the innocent people in here. Why, some of them might even accidentally bump into one of my bullets."

Cold fury choked El's next words. He could not say anything. He could only sit here. He could not endanger the people in the cantina. They did not deserve to be dragged into his mess. They had done nothing wrong.

"I'm not much for moonlit walks," he said, trying to sound as flippant as Sands, and failing miserably.

To his surprise, Sands found this amusing. "Neither am I, El. Neither am I." He stood up in one fluid motion. The gun had vanished, a temporary situation, El knew.

He decided that he might as well get this over with. He rose to his feet. "After you."

Sands did not even bother to reply. He simply set off, pushing through the sweat-slicked dancers, uncaring who he bumped or whose foot he trod on. El followed close behind, hoping that anyone who even bothered to notice them would think he was merely escorting another unruly patron outside.

It occurred to him that he could shoot Sands in the back now, and rid the world of a very dangerous threat. But if he did that, the cantina would erupt in panic. People would be hurt trying to flee the gunshots. And Sands was a survivor. There was every chance that he would not be killed right away, and that in his enraged response, he would gun down as many innocents as he could before El finished the job. No, it was safer to wait until they got outside.

Unsurprisingly, Sands headed for the back door. El pursed his lips. Of course. He should have known. Men like Sands never used the front door. _No, I'll shoot the cook. My car's parked out back anyway._

They went through the steam-filled kitchen. A few employees looked up with dull curiosity, then returned to their work. In the doorway, Sands paused. "Go on," he said.

"So you can shoot me in the back," El grouched, sorry now that he had let his one chance slip away.

Sands shook his head. "Not my style."

El was not convinced, but he could not see that he had any other choice. Clenching his jaw to hold back his anger, he pushed open the back door and stepped out into the night.

The sun had set, and full dark had descended. Stars glittered overhead. The night smelled of smoke and music. El breathed deep, then spun around, his hand plunging downward, reaching for his weapon.

Too late. Sands already had the gun out again. Just one twitch of his finger, and it was over. "Now, El. You see that car parked over by the dumpsters? Get in. We're going for a ride."


	2. The Plan is Revealed

Chapter 2

The Plan is Revealed

Disclaimer: Everyone belongs to Robert Rodriguez. I'm only playing with them again.

Author's Note: Thanks so much to everyone who wrote and reviewed this story. I had hoped that you all would like it, and the reactions I've received have left me thrilled and amazed. I hope the continuing story doesn't disappoint.

* * *

El knew within seconds that he had made a fatal mistake. He should never have agreed to go with Sands. Years of being cautious were wasted. It was all over. The only question now was whether it would be a bullet in the head or several in the chest.

The parking lot behind the cantina was small, and for employees only. Two big green dumpsters stood at the end of the lot, and behind them was a tall wooden privacy fence. At this hour all the spaces were taken, but there was no one standing out here, no one to bear witness to El's murder. The people who owned these cars were currently inside the cantina, serving drinks and washing dishes and completely unaware that a man was about to be shot to death.

A strange car was parked in front of the dumpsters. It looked like a beat-up Chevy. The engine was running, and the headlights were pointed at the back door, bathing El in their cold glare. He squinted at the car, but could not tell how many men were inside. At least two, he guessed. Possibly more.

He tried to stall for time. It was Saturday night, after all. Surely someone would walk out the back door soon. If he could just postpone the final moment, he might make it out of this alive.

"What is it that you want?"

Sands sighed. The gun remained pointed at his head. "I know we have a lot to catch up on, but now is really not the time, El. Just give me your gun, and get in the car."

The pistol was still covered by his jacket, but there was no point in denying that he was armed. That would only piss Sands off. "You did not answer my question."

"I could answer it with a bullet." Sands made a clipped gesture with the gun. Under the wash of the headlights, the sunglasses neatly divided his face into two separate planes of black and white.

The driver's side door of the Chevy opened. El raised his hands, wincing in anticipation of the barrage of bullets sure to come his way.

A figure stepped out of the car. Not a tall one. Again, he breathed a tiny bit easier to realize it was not Cucuy. This man was actually fairly short, and slender. He held a gun in both hands as he walked slowly around the car, keeping El in his sights at all times.

And then El blinked in shock. Because the new gunman was not a man at all. He was just a boy.

He guessed the boy's age at somewhere around thirteen or fourteen. Tall for his age but still not a man's size. Steady hands. And clearly taking orders from Sands.

The CIA officer smirked at El's shock. "Now be a good mariachi and give Chiclet here your gun."

Chiclet? El stared at the boy, his mind whirling with questions. Who was he? Why was he traveling with Sands? Why was he so comfortable with a gun?

"Do it, señor," said the boy named Chiclet. His voice matched his frame, on the cusp of manhood. "No one has to get hurt."

"Well, not El, anyway," Sands amended. The boy grimaced, then nodded in agreement.

The whole thing had taken on a vaguely surreal note. El looked back and forth from the boy to where Sands stood stock still, his gun still aimed at El's forehead. "I don't believe this."

"You can assess your sanity later," Sands snapped. "Get in the car." When El did not move, he fired a single shot.

Instinctively El ducked, but even as he did, he realized the bullet would have missed him. Sands had aimed over his shoulder.

"I could herd you," Sands said, "but you are fast wearing out my patience, El."

The next shot would not miss. Keeping one hand up, El reached for his weapon. No one from the cantina had come running at the sound of the pistol shot, which he had expected, but it was still disappointing. After everything he had done for these people, it would have been nice for at least one of them to return the favor.

He pulled the gun from his belt and had just begun to hold it out when he let his gaze shift beyond Sands, to the driveway leading from the parking lot. He froze. "Who is back there? Who is with you?"

The boy startled and glanced behind him. Sands, however, did not so much as flinch. The gun in his hands never wavered, although he did cock his head slightly. "Chiclet?"

"No one is there," the boy said. "He is lying."

The corner of Sands' mouth quirked. "Nice try, El."

Conceding defeat, El tossed his gun onto the asphalt. His attempt at distraction had failed. Now he was unarmed, with only his wits to get him out of this mess.

He slouched toward the car, his hands still in the air. The boy backed away as he approached, but kept the gun trained on him. Sands remained where he was, only the muzzle of the gun following El's progress.

There was something strange about this whole affair. Sands could have easily killed him a hundred times by now. Yet Sands and this boy Chiclet were taking great pains to get El to play along with some secret plan they had concocted. He had no idea what that plan might be, but whatever it was, they obviously needed him alive. He seized on this thought. It was his only hope. "Whoever is paying you--" he started.

Sands did not let him finish. "Just get in the fucking car, El." He strode forward, moving to the other side of the car so he could get in the passenger side.

Knowing what was expected of him, El stepped up to the driver's side. He opened the back door. "Are you at least going to tell me where we are going?"

Sands opened his mouth to respond, but the boy interrupted. "It's almost ten o'clock!" he yelled.

For the first time all evening, some of Sands' unnatural composure left him. He visibly flinched. "Get in the car," he ordered. "_Now_."

El reacted without thinking. He threw himself into the seat. On the other side of the car, Sands did the same, slamming his door shut at the same time as El.

But the boy, the boy who looked vaguely familiar to El's baffled eyes, did not get in the car. The boy ran toward the cantina, stopping only long enough to scoop up the gun El had dropped. He flung open the back door and then disappeared inside the cantina.

"What is this?" El muttered.

Beside him, Sands sat very still and very tense. "Maybe he placed an order to go."

El turned to stare at him. The interior of the car was shadowed and stuffy. He could barely make out the beads of sweat on Sands' forehead.

The cantina door opened again. The boy came running out. Before he had made it halfway across the parking lot, several people had emerged behind him. They were shouting and gesturing wildly, and every single one of them looked terrified.

"Oh my God," El breathed.

"Move your ass, Chiclet!" Sands shouted.

The boy ran hell for leather toward the car. He slid in behind the wheel and gunned the engine. He reached for the car door and pulled it toward him, but not hard enough, and it flapped open again as he tromped on the accelerator.

"Get down!" Sands slid down in the seat until he was almost lying on his back, his legs pressed against the upholstered back of the passenger seat. His right arm remained across his chest, his gun still pointed at El's head.

Utterly confused but determined to stay alive, El did as he was told.

The car shot forward. From his vantage point on his back, El could not see the fear on the faces of the people fleeing the cantina. But he could hear it in their screams, and he shivered. To the right of the dashboard, a small clock said that it was 9:59.

The boy had to have the seat pulled forward, but he was one hell of a driver. He guided the Chevy down the driveway that paralleled the cantina, and out into the front parking lot. El eased himself up just enough to peek over the edge of the window. Out here the chaos was greater. People were getting into their cars and backing away so quickly that one woman was nearly run over. Others ran for the street, while still more poured from the gaping front doors of the building.

"_Madre de Dios_," El breathed. "What is happening?"

The boy yanked on the steering wheel. He finally heaved his door closed, and the Chevy just missed running down a woman wearing a low-cut black dress. Then they were on the street itself, leaving the cantina behind.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sands said. "We're saving your life."

El twisted around in his seat. Through the back window, he watched as the cantina exploded in a ball of fire.

* * *

For several miles El could not think at all. He kept trying to understand what had happened, but it was all too confusing.

Sands had saved his life. Sands was keeping company with a thirteen-year old boy. Sands was very clearly insane.

But Sands had not only saved his life, he had allowed the boy to save as many as possible from within the cantina. And by ordering El to drop below sight, no one could say for sure that he had not died in the blast intended to kill him.

That was one thing he was sure of. The bomb in the cantina had been meant for him. At some point the cartels had discovered his location. No doubt he had sung to a few of them as they sat at their tables and drank their beers and pretended to be regular customers. After a few visits had proved his identity to their satisfaction, they had decided to take action. One of them – perhaps the new dishwasher who had mysteriously quit this morning – had planted the bomb. And then they had sat back and waited for El Mariachi to die.

He looked behind him again. There was nothing to see except a pale smear of red light on the far horizon. Soon even that would be gone.

He turned around, exhaling hard. So many explosions in his life. And for what? None of them had ever meant anything. None of them, save for one.

The bookstore in Santa Cecilia. The explosion that had changed his life. He remembered saying, _I wasn't always like this_, and Carolina had said, _I can see that_. And she had meant it. She had come between him and the darkness. She had taken his hand and led him out from that place of shadows, where the only light came from muzzle-flashes and explosions.

But Carolina was gone. Their beautiful daughter was gone. Again there was nothing to stand between him and the darkness. He had nothing left. He did not believe in God anymore. He had his music, but it provided him little comfort. The old injury to his left hand had healed enough to allow him to play the guitar again, but not as he once had. That was why he only played two nights a week. He simply could not manage anything more.

Which left him with very little. With a thrill of horror, El realized it would be incredibly easy to slip back into the old ways. All he had to do now was . . .

"Stop!" he yelled. He pounded on the window. "Stop! Stop the car!"

The boy named Chiclet glanced in the rearview mirror, but did not let up on the accelerator. It could not have been clearer that he took orders only from Sands, and that El was wasting his time.

All right, then.

He lunged to his right. A split-second later, the muzzle of a gun was shoved against his cheek. "By all means," Sands said softly.

Hissing with fury, El sat up straight again. "We have to go back."

"You really don't get it, do you?" Sands shook his head. "We have to get as far as possible from that place." His voice was light again. He put a slight stress on the word _we_, managing to make it sound extremely distasteful, as if he wanted to distance himself from El as much as he could while sitting not a foot away from him.

"But those people," El stammered.

"Are probably all standing in line in the parking lot, waiting to be interviewed by the reporter for the eleven o'clock news," said Sands.

El stared at him. The sunglasses Sands wore were a little too big, and a little too cheap. He hated them, and he hated the man wearing them. A sudden thirst for violence seized him, making him want to rip those glasses off and punch Sands in the nose until blood spattered them both.

He clenched his hands into fists and kept them securely on his lap. "Why did you do this?"

"It's all about keeping the balance, El." Now Sands sounded bored, like he had been asked that question so many times he no longer cared to answer.

The boy flashed his turn signal and turned left onto a narrow road. They were headed north, El saw, toward Guadalajara. "Where are we going?"

"Oh," Sands said. "I almost forgot. These are for you." He transferred the gun from his right hand to his left, and rummaged in the pouch of the seat in front of him. He drew out two items. In the darkness, El could only tell that one was metal and one was not.

"What is it?" El asked.

Sands sighed impatiently. "Chiclet."

The boy glanced in the rearview mirror again. His face was tight with tension, but again El had a nagging feeling that he should recognize him.

The interior light switched on. Immediately the headlights dimmed, revealing the poor wiring in the car. The light inside was not very strong either, but it was enough. El looked down at what Sands was offering him, and recoiled.

"No," he said.

"El," Sands said warningly. He waved the objects, making one flutter and the other give a metallic rattle. "You're really not in any position to bargain."

Quickly he weighed his options. He could attack Sands, and risk getting shot or killed. There was a possibility that the boy would be shot in the ensuing scuffle, and the car would crash. The resulting chaos of a crash would provide the perfect cover for an escape, but El was reluctant to injure the boy. Even if he was partners with Sands, the boy was still just that – a boy.

He eyed the handcuffs. "I thought you were saving my life, not ending it."

Sands dropped the handcuffs onto the seat. The blindfold drifted down to cover one of the metal loops. "You're being awfully short-sighted here."

"How is that?" El asked, injecting as much sarcasm as he could into his voice.

"Well, you see, up ahead there are some bad guys. In fact, they're waiting for us. They think I'm working with them to find you and bring you in."

Dark rage swelled within him. The line he did not want to cross again loomed dangerously near. Just one step, and he would forever live on the other side, in the darkness. He gripped his shaking fists, struggling not to give in to his anger. "I knew it, you bastard. As if _you_ would ever save my life."

"El, El, El. You're still not seeing the big picture." Sands acted as though he did not even see El's fury. In that same maddeningly calm voice he said, "The fine gentlemen I just mentioned only _think_ I am working with them. How else could I get them to tell me their plan? How else would I have known about the bomb in the cantina?"

El had no response to this. Sands was CIA. There was no limit to the man's capacity for manipulation. He did not believe a single word Sands told him.

But one fact remained inescapable. Sands had saved his life at the cantina.

"They're the bad guys, El." Sands made a short gesture with his gun and grinned. "And I'm going to take them out. With your help, of course."

A flood of astonishment washed his anger away. Sands wanted his help? And then an instant later he felt stupidly embarrassed. Of course Sands wanted his help. This was Culiacan all over again. _And that is what I would like from you. To help me keep the balance by pulling the trigger._ Sands only wanted to use him. When he no longer served Sands' purpose, he would die.

Still, it was a chance. As long as he pretended to go along with it, he would stay alive. And the longer he stayed alive, the sooner he would find his chance to escape.

So he made a face like he was mulling it over, paying attention to their surroundings as Chiclet made a series of turns onto progressively dustier roads. "Who are they, these bad men?"

"Cartel, of course. But then, you already knew that, didn't you?" said Sands.

He snorted in derision. Of course they were cartel. Who else would it be? His battle with them would never be over. He had told his American friend once that it would all end with Bucho's death, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Killing his brother had only kept the wheel turning.

"I don't trust you," he said.

"Chiclet will give you your gun back when we get closer," Sands said. "But we won't even get past the lookout if you aren't wearing that blindfold and those cuffs. Now _put them on_." The casual lilt was gone from his voice. He sounded like a killer now.

El glared at him, wishing once more that he would take off those stupid sunglasses. He didn't like not being able to look his enemy in the eye. "What do you get out of this?"

"Dough, of course."

Naturally. With extreme reluctance, El reached for the handcuffs. He slipped one metal loop about his left wrist and tried to close it.

Unsure whether he should laugh or throw the stupid things at Sands, he said, "These are broken."

"Yes, I am aware of that," Sands said with exaggerated patience.

El frowned. The end of the cuff was crumpled, and would not fit into the slot designed for it. Neither shackle would close. But if he turned them on his wrists and held his arms against his body, the gap in the loops would not be visible. Anyone looking at him would think he was securely bound.

This was for real, he suddenly understood. Sands was indeed planning to take out the men waiting ahead. And he truly did need El's help to do it.

It was somewhat humbling to realize that so far Sands had been a man of his word.

El picked up the blindfold, noting the way the handcuffs slid up and down his wrists as he moved his hands. He tied the black strip of cloth about his forehead, leaving it there so he could pull it down when they drew nearer to the point of confrontation. "You have more guns?"

"Always," Sands said.

El nodded. "What happens after we are done here?"

"That depends. You're assuming there's going to be an after."

"What happens?"

"We'll talk about it then."

"No," El said firmly. "We talk about it _now_."

"There is no time," said the boy named Chiclet. He had watched this exchange in the rearview mirror. "We're almost there."

"Oh, good," Sands said brightly.

The boy brought the car to a halt. He opened the glove compartment and brought out a complicated tangle of leather straps and guns and boxes of ammo. El felt his spirits grimly lighten at the sight of all the weaponry.

The leather turned out to be a pair of shoulder holsters. Sands put these on with practiced ease, arming himself with quick, efficient movements. El watched carefully, looking for any signs that Sands was nervous or in unfamiliar territory. To his chagrin, he was forced to admit that the likelihood of ever taking Sands by surprise was slim to none. The man was just too prepared, too capable.

The boy held out one last gun, turning in his seat to offer it to El. "This is yours, señor."

El took back his pistol, relieved to feel its weight again. Only a few minutes ago he would have used it to shoot Sands without hesitation, but now he made himself sit still. The time would come. But not yet.

"Not yet," Sands said. He held out his hand. "I'll take that."

"You said--"

"Here's the plan, El. When we get there, you're going to stay put. I'm going to get out of the car, walk around to your side, open the door, and pull you out. There'll be some talk. I'll probably shake you a little, maybe even smack you upside the head, depending on how I feel." Sands gave him a quick grin. "Then you spring at me, pulling your gun from my belt. I shout, 'Oh no, he's loose!' and then you and I kill all the bad guys. Savvy?"

El savvied. He handed his gun over. "Don't hit me," he warned.

Sands did not move. He just sat here, holding his hand out. "You're not writing this script, El. Got it?"

El stared at him. Behind those dark sunglasses, he could almost feel the weight of Sands' stare burning into him. He slapped his pistol into Sands' waiting palm.

With a shaky sigh, the boy began driving forward again. El rotated the handcuffs so their charade was hidden. "And the boy?"

"The boy knows what to do," said Sands. "Don't worry about him."

There were lights in the darkness up ahead. The lookout, Sands had said. It was time. Steeling himself, he reached up and pulled the blindfold down over his eyes.

Absolute darkness dropped over him. In instinctive panic, he turned his head from side to side, seeking light, needing to see something, anything. His breath came in short pants.

"Sucks to be blind, doesn't it?" Sands said. There was a curious tightness to the words.

"How much further?" he asked. Talking helped to ease his fear. It reminded him that he was not alone and lost in the dark. He was with someone, even if that someone was a man he hated.

"Almost there," said the boy named Chiclet. And suddenly, without sight to interfere, El remembered him. He had seen the boy in Culiacan, when he had walked through the town before the coup. The boy had been riding a bicycle, selling bubble gum to tourists. He had been wearing a yellow T-shirt then, reminding him poignantly of another boy in a yellow T-shirt, in Santa Cecilia.

"All right, El." Sands' voice interrupted his reverie. "It's show time. Think you can remember your lines?"


	3. The Enemy of My Enemy is My Friend

Chapter 3

The Enemy of My Enemy is my Friend

Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez owns them. I am not Robert Rodriguez. Therefore, I do not own them.

* * *

Since the botched coup, Sands had done a lot of things that would have been inconceivable in his previous life. Some were things he had never imagined. Others were things he had occasionally thought about, but under very different circumstances. Circumstances that involved him still possessing both eyes, for instance. Nonetheless, he felt he had reached a point where nothing could surprise him anymore.

So it was something of a surprise, albeit a mild one, to find himself in this place. Shoulder to shoulder with El Mariachi. Planning to take out the bad guys. Together. It sort of defied belief, if you could dig it.

Sands could dig it.

It had been a long three years. At various points in the past he had thought he had finally reached the end of the line, but he had always found a way to keep going, to survive, to stay in the game and play one more hand. He had fought and clawed his way up from the darkness to get where he was today. Of course he was still standing. He wouldn't have it any other way. No one manipulated him and got away with it. He was the one pulling the strings and calling the shots. That was how it worked. That was why he here tonight, sitting in the backseat of a smelly Chevy with his gun pointed at El Mariachi's head.

The car was just coasting forward now. He could hear El's tense breathing, and a faint rattle from the handcuffs as the mariachi shifted position.

Sands was not impressed. Had he truly meant El harm, the mariachi would have been dead a hundred times over by now. For someone who had half of Mexico hunting for him, El was not a very smart guy. First he had let Cucuy find him all those years ago, and now he had let Sands practically abduct him from the cantina. He just hoped El was still good with a gun, or things were about to get _very_ interesting.

The car came to a halt. Chiclet rolled down the window. Humid night air crept in, battling the Chevy's ancient air conditioning. A voice asked if this was the mariachi.

"No," Sands said in flawless Spanish. "It's just some guy I picked up at the cantina so I could have a random fuck."

El's breath whooshed out in an indignant huff.

The lookout grunted. "Go on. They're waiting for you."

"Good." Sands permitted himself a faint smile.

Chiclet rolled up the window, and the car started forward again. On his left, El remembered to breathe again.

It was a shame El spoke such good English. He would have liked to ask Chiclet how the mariachi looked. He wanted to know how scared El was. He wanted to know how the last three years had treated El. He wanted to know if El seemed like a man who was ready to die, or if El too was willing to do whatever was required to stay alive and on his feet.

Oh well. Some other time. And at any rate, he would find out soon enough just how far El was willing to go in order to survive.

The drop-off point was nothing special. He had arranged it all by phone two days ago. Early this morning he and Chiclet had driven out here and scoped the place out. Or rather, Chiclet had done all the scoping, while Sands had listened hard and laid his plans. The land here was flat in all directions, and covered with the scrub brush that Sands swore was Mexico's official plant. There were no buildings other than the ramshackle remnants of what might have once been a house. A rusting water pump stood near the road; he had run his hands over it this morning for a good long time before deciding it would not provide any cover for a man seeking shelter from flying bullets.

In other words, the drop-off point was a perfect killing ground. Just what he had wanted.

The car began to slow down again. Sands faced forward, his head slightly cocked, the better to hear what El was up to. He had long ago come to terms with his blindness, but at times – like right now, for instance – he would have sold his soul for even five seconds of sight. "For the benefit of our dear mariachi friend, tell him what you see, Chiclet."

Chiclet cleared his throat. The kid had been with him ever since the day it had all begun (or ended, depending on how you looked at things). Sands knew damn well why the kid had left his home and attached himself to a cold-blooded killer. He had never asked, and Chiclet had never volunteered the information, but he knew the truth anyway. That was why they got along so well. Chiclet always knew when to speak up and give him the appropriate info for their situation, But he also understood the value of silence, and when to shut the hell up. More than that, the kid had proven to be a good shot, and most importantly, a natural thief and spy. They worked well together, and Sands knew he owed his life to the kid. That was okay. He didn't mind being beholden a to kid. Not when that kid was Chiclet.

"Five men," Chiclet said now. Quickly he described their positions, fanned out in a semi-circle that effectively blocked the road. Sands nodded to himself. Everything was just the way he had arranged it. "All armed. Two Jeeps. Their lights are on," he added helpfully. Not that it mattered to Sands, but El would be glad to hear it.

Sands frowned. Only five men. That was what he had told them, of course, but that would not stop them from doing things their own way. He would bet good money there was at least one other man out there, either hiding in the ruins of the house or lurking behind it.

"There is a wooden house to the left, off the road. The roof has fallen in and the wood is rotting. There's a water pump in the yard." Chiclet's tone was flat. Unless things went terribly wrong, his guns would not be needed tonight, but from the sound of his voice, he was ready all the same. Sands approved.

"There is probably another man in the house," El said. He shifted on the seat, the handcuffs jingling in harmony with the chains on his jacket. "Maybe more."

At last, a sign of intelligence from the mariachi. Things were looking up.

"I only see five," Chiclet said.

"Four men to a Jeep," said El. "There should be eight of them."

"No," Sands said. "Three men to a Jeep. Chiclet and I ride in one, you ride in one." He smirked, knowing El could not see him, but not caring. "Remember, they think I'm with them."

"So only one man is hiding," El said. The handcuffs about his wrists rattled again. Sands thought about mocking his nervousness, then decided it was better not to. He didn't want the mariachi falling to pieces before the fun even began. He could do this on his own, but he preferred not to. The payoff would be so much greater if El believed they were truly allies fighting the same battle.

The car stopped. Chiclet turned off the engine. "Show time," Sands whispered.

He got out of the car, cursing under his breath when he missed the door handle the first time. He stepped out, grinning widely. "Señores! As promised, I have brought you El Mariachi."

The five men – who were not cartel, by the way, but he was not about to tell El that – did not speak. Sands walked around the back of the car, trailing his fingers over the metal to guide his way. At times like this, he almost did not miss his eyes. He did not need sight to kill. Adrenaline and something else, something sweetly sinister, sang in his veins. He clamped down on a ridiculous urge to giggle.

He reached the driver's side passenger door and opened it. He reached in and grabbed El's upper arm. "Get up," he said harshly, and yanked the mariachi out of the car.

El came willingly enough, stumbling a little as his feet hit the ground. It was a sweet moment, and he savored it, taking vicious satisfaction in knowing that someone else shared his blindness, even if it was only temporary. He pulled El two steps to the left, keeping the mariachi off balance. But only two steps. That put enough distance between himself and the car so that everyone could see his prisoner, but also kept him close enough that a single dive would bring him within the vehicle's comforting shelter.

If everyone had done what they were supposed to, there was now one man standing directly in front of him, approximately ten feet away. One man would be ahead and to his left. The others were all on his right. And Manuel would be in the middle, as befitted his rank. Sands addressed his words to him now. "Here he is. The little mariachi that has caused you so much trouble." He gave El's arm a hard shake. El tensed, but said nothing.

"He escaped the bomb," said Manuel. His voice came from the exact spot Sands had guessed it would, and the anticipation building within him cranked up another notch. The urge to laugh was very strong now. So far, everything was going perfectly according to his plan.

"I told you he would," Sands said. "Why do you think I insisted on being there? The man can smell a trap a mile away." He turned toward El. "Too bad you couldn't smell me, hey El?"

El cursed and twisted in his grip, trying to pull free. Sands did not let him. Not yet.

"Take off the blindfold. I want to see his face," said Manuel.

Sands bit the inside of his cheek to keep from braying with laughter. It was just too easy! He had not scripted this encounter, because he had known he would not need to. They all thought they were so clever, and the whole time, they were doing exactly what he wanted them to do.

He reached for El's face. El flinched away from his touch, and Sands bit down harder, his shoulders hitching with suppressed laughter. He wrapped his fingers around the blindfold. "Now," he breathed.

El twitched. Sands tugged off the blindfold.

And El sprang into action.

The mariachi's hand scrabbled at his belt, then yanked the pistol free. An instant later, El's bulk hit him solidly in the side, sending him reeling to his left. Metal jingled as the handcuffs fell to the ground. Sands stumbled and fell to one knee. "Shit!" he yelled in fury. It was no act. El's little bumper-car move had thrown him off balance and now he longer knew what direction he was facing, or how far he had gone from the car.

Manuel's men yelled out in alarm. The first shots were fired. They did not, Sands noted distractedly, come from El Mariachi.

He stayed down low, pulling a gun with his free hand. On his right, El finally joined the fight. The sound of gunshots was almost deafening at this close range, but Sands had already heard what he needed to hear. He knew where the enemy was now.

Bullets whined into the dust. So far Manuel and his men didn't suspect a thing. If any of them wondered why he did not shoot El, they did not say anything. He heard a body thump into the car and guessed that was El seeking shelter.

Holding both guns, Sands stood up. Calmly he began to fire. A body dropped into the dirt. Another man cried out in pain. And now that it was too late, they started to realize what was happening.

"Kill him!" one of them shouted.

Sands ducked and threw himself toward the car. Time to hide. He was a target now.

Bullets plowed into the car. Glass shattered. Shouts of confusion and anger rose over the gunfire. "_Cabron!_" screamed Manuel. "You think you can betray _me_?"

"Well, yeah," Sands said, and finally let himself laugh. There was no way he could hold back any longer.

"You are crazy," El panted. The mariachi was on his right, breathing heavily.

"I know," Sands laughed. "Come on, El, let's finish this."

* * *

Two minutes later it was done. All five men were dead. The smell of gunpowder was powerful. Sands stood very still, his head cocked, listening hard.

"There is still a man in the house," El muttered.

"Get him," Sands said. "Chiclet and I will cover you."

El was silent for a while, no doubt giving him an ugly glare. He said nothing, an innocent expression on his face. At last, still muttering, El walked off. The jingling chains on his jacket and pants betrayed his every move. Sands liked that. It was easier to keep track of someone when they made a lot of noise.

A minute later, a single gunshot rang out. "He did it," Chiclet said. The kid sounded relieved. He had not participated in tonight's slaughter, which was just as well. Chiclet was a good shot, but he had too much conscience.

"Are you hurt?" Sands asked. He had heard the windshield of the car shatter under the gunfire, but there had been no time to wonder if the kid was all right.

"No," Chiclet said. "Are you?"

As always, the genuine concern in the boy's voice made something constrict in Sands' chest. It was something of a miracle, he thought, that after everything, Chiclet could still care what happened to him. "I'm fine," he said. There had been a few close calls tonight, but then, there always were.

"Garcia is going to be pissed," Chiclet said. He tried to make it sound as though this didn't bother him much, but Sands knew better.

It wasn't often that Chiclet contradicted him, but on the way to the cantina earlier this evening, the kid had expressed grave reservations about this plan. It was too dangerous, Chiclet had said. Was all this really necessary?

Sands had made no reply. Part of him had seethed with fury at Chiclet's ignorance. Another part of him had felt bitterly resentful that a thirteen-year old kid could question him and get away with it. Still another part of him had merely wondered the same thing as Chiclet, if such an elaborate charade was really needed. Just why, exactly, was he doing all this?

He still had no answer to Chiclet's question, but by now it was a moot point. Manuel and his men were dead, and the gauntlet had been thrown. The ball was no longer in his court.

"Garcia is going to be _muy_ pissed," Sands said. He clapped Chiclet on the shoulder. "Now go fetch our mariachi friend."

Obediently, Chiclet trotted off. Sands did not holster his guns. Not yet. El might decide that he did not want to go back to being a prisoner.

It seemed to take a long time for them to return. Sands remained where he was, the ticking of the cooling engine on his right. Ahead, a man was groaning, but the sound was faint and thready; death was not far off. Sands thought about shooting him, but he did not know what was happening between El and Chiclet. If there was some kind of standoff, he did not want to startle them with a gunshot, and take away any advantage Chiclet might have.

He felt the thrill of a job well done. Three years of following someone else's orders had come to a bloody end tonight. After this, everything would be different. Tonight he had sent them a message. He was through with playing by the rules. Creative sportsmanship had finally returned to Mexico. From now on, he was going to do things his own way.

The groaning man finally died. Sands grinned a quick, hard grin.

He heard the sound of their footsteps returning, one light set and one heavier set punctuated by jingling chains. "He does not want to come with us," Chiclet said.

No surprises there. "Oh, really?" He aimed his words at that ridiculous jingle. "You seem to be laboring under the delusion that you have a choice, El."

The cold click of a gun being cocked was his only response.

Having El's pistol pointed at his head did not perturb Sands in the slightest. "Let me keep this simple," he said. "The men we killed tonight? They're pretty low-ranking, but someone _is_ going to notice that they're dead. And then that someone will send more men after us. Now I'm sure you think you can make it on your own, but before you get to thinking too hard, may I remind you that not only did I find you, but _they_ did, too." He lowered his voice. "And if they found you once, they can find you again."

"You have made powerful enemies tonight," El admitted. "But they are not my enemies. I want no part of this."

"They've been your enemies ever since they killed the woman you love," Sands said sweetly. "Or do you mean to tell me that you've forgotten all about your little Domino?"

El's breath stopped. Sands tensed, ready to dive into the dirt at a word from Chiclet. But apparently the mariachi must have held onto his self-control, because Chiclet didn't say anything. In the little mental filing cabinet he kept on everyone he had ever met, Sands filed away the card marked "Domino" and shut the drawer. That was all right. He had plenty of other ways to push El's buttons.

"I have not forgotten," El said. "I remember. . .everything."

"Then you know why I can't let you go," Sands said. "We're in this together now, El. Like it or not."

"Why?" El demanded. "Why did you drag me into your schemes? Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Sands shook his head, wishing he still had eyes so he could roll them. The great El Mariachi really could be such a whiner sometimes. "If I hadn't dragged you into this, as you put it, you'd be a crispy critter in that cantina right about now. Besides, you still want vengeance, don't you? I know your type, El. You can never be satisfied. You always want more."

"You are wrong," El said. "I am not that man anymore."

Sands shrugged, and holstered away his guns. "Whatever." He was fast losing interest in this conversation, and besides, he didn't have time for philosophical debates. "Just get in the car. We're going."

"Where?" El asked suspiciously.

"Guadalajara for starters," Sands said. "I have a hotel room there. Tomorrow morning we can make plans."

"Tomorrow morning I will be gone," El said. He stalked toward the car, every footfall, even every stupid jingle of his chains, managing to sound offended.

Aloud, Sands did not reply. To himself, he murmured, "No, you won't."

Chiclet walked up to him. "I don't trust him," the kid said in a low voice.

"Neither do I," Sands said. "But sometimes you have to choose the devil you know." He gave Chiclet a smile meant to be encouraging. "_Vamonos_."

A car door opened. El Mariachi got in and then slammed the door shut. Another door opened, and there came the sounds of Chiclet sweeping broken glass off the seat. The night was cooling off, and the smells of blood and gunpowder were thinning out. Sands walked around the car so he could join Chiclet up front. He was still smiling.

* * *

Author's Note: I'll be out of town this weekend, so responses on LJ and to reviews will be delayed, but as always, I will get back to you if you write me. Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed, and to Melody my wonderful beta reader. 


	4. A Peso For Your Thoughts

Chapter 4

A Peso For Your Thoughts

Disclaimer: El and Sands are not mine. They are probably very glad of this.

Author's Note: Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed. Special thank to my beta reader Melody, who came through with this chapter even when she was sick and had to stay home from work. You're the best, girl.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, the motel was located in a poor area of the city. Chiclet turned into the parking lot, then made a sound of dismay. "Someone took our parking space," he said.

El looked around. Habit made him count the doors, so he would know how many rooms the motel had, and note the two exits from the parking lot. The motel was a two-story, rectangular-shaped building painted a hideous shade of green. A central courtyard contained a small pool and a pair of lopsided vending machines. At this hour of the night, most of the windows were lightless. It was a depressing sight that did nothing for El's spirits.

"We'll have to park two spaces to the right," Chiclet groused as he pulled the car into a space between two vehicles looking even more rundown than their own.

El looked at the door that stood two parking spaces away. "Then you already have a room."

"Naturally," Sands said. The orange lights in the parking lot glinted off his sunglasses. "Weren't you ever a Boy Scout, El? 'Be prepared' and all that." He fished in the pocket of his black jeans and came up with a room key. "Number 252," he said. "Why don't you go on up and check?"

El narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Check for what?"

"Well, if any bad guys found us, I'd rather they shoot you in the head, not me."

"I'll do it," Chiclet said. He turned around in his seat and held out his hand for the room key.

"Okay." Sands started to give him the key.

El was appalled. Expecting a grown man to walk into possible danger was one thing, but not a child! He snatched the key from Sands before the boy could take it. "I will be right back," he said with disgust.

Sands just shrugged. "Sure."

El got out of the car and headed down the sidewalk. Concrete stairs at one end of the building led to the second floor. He climbed the steps, listening to the excited shouting and splashing coming from the pool; no doubt teenagers who had no thought for the people trying to sleep. He wondered how many people were staying in the motel tonight. How many of them had their TVs on right now. How many of them were watching a somber news reporter talk about the explosion at the cantina south of here.

According to a weather-beaten sign hanging from two chains attached to the gutter, the block of rooms that included number 252 was on the other side of the motel, facing the inner courtyard. El found it without any trouble. He pulled his weapon, ready to blast away whoever might be lurking inside. He used the key to unlock the door, turned the knob, and pushed the door open an inch.

Nothing happened. After a long moment while El strained to hear the sounds of an intruder over the splashing and screaming of the teenagers in the pool, he decided that he was safe. The motel room was empty.

He opened the door all the way and walked inside. There were two beds, a dresser and a TV, and a closet with no door and no place to hang clothes. A small table stood between the beds, and a straight-backed chair missing a chunk from the seat was beside the dresser. The bathroom smelled of used mop water. El turned around and left the room. He walked the length of the upper floor, watching the teenagers playing in the pool. He turned the corner, and now he was walking along the short side of the rectangle created by the motel. As he neared the stairwell, he saw Chiclet and Sands were already halfway up the steps.

"It's clear," he said, watching them closely. Despite his youth, Chiclet kept his pace even with Sands, taking the stairs right alongside the older man. El frowned a little, unsure what to think about this. Again he was struck by the obvious hero-worship the boy had for Sands, and it unsettled him.

He turned around and went back into the motel room. He used the bathroom, washing his hands thoroughly. He had not been injured in the gunfight and there was no blood on his hands, but he felt dirty all the same. It had been a long time since he had killed a man. He had forgotten how it made him feel afterward.

Sands and Chiclet were just entering the room as El walked out of the bathroom. "No suitcases?" he asked. He sat on the chair next to the dresser, grimacing as he noticed immediately that one leg was shorter than the other, making the chair rock annoyingly.

"We've been here for two days," Chiclet said. "Our stuff's in the drawers." He grabbed the remote control from the table between the beds and flipped on the TV. Sands walked toward the bathroom, his steps slow and measured, as if he were suddenly very tired.

"Waiting for me," El said.

Chiclet shrugged. He was intent on finding something to watch.

El scowled. He was not at all pleased. It was not so much the fact that they had found him, but that he had not known about it. For all his precautions, he had been completely oblivious to the events happening around him. Anyone could have walked into the cantina and blown his head off, and he would have died without ever comprehending why. In a way, he owed Sands, for confronting him, for forcing him to face reality.

He hated that.

The bathroom door closed. After a pause, the light snapped on. "Why are you with him?" El asked quietly.

Chiclet turned the TV off. He stood up. "I'll go get us something to eat," he said. "What do you want?"

"I am not hungry," El said. He was a little disappointed that the boy would not talk to him, but only a little. He had expected it. Maybe after a few days, when the boy trusted him more. And if El could talk to him alone, without Sands being present…

He shook his head. What was he thinking? He would not be here in a few days. He should not be acting as though he would be.

Chiclet left through the front door, and a beat later, Sands emerged from the bathroom. Moving in that same steady gait, he walked over to the nearest bed and sat down across from El. The mariachi watched him carefully as he walked past. He was still armed, and he had not removed his sunglasses.

"What are you trying to be, a rock star?" El gestured to his face.

"You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think that was an attempt to discover a sense of humor." Sands leaned back on his hands. "Where's Chiclet?"

"He went to get something to eat. How can you let a boy do all the work for you? He can't be more than twelve," he said, deliberately guessing low.

"Actually he's almost fourteen," Sands said. "His birthday is sometime in December, if I remember right."

El blinked. Once again Sands had managed to surprise him. He would not have expected the man to care, let alone know when the boy's birthday was. "Why are you letting him travel with you? This is too dangerous for a boy, no matter how old he is."

"But not dangerous for a man?" Sands flashed him a quick grin, then sat up straight. His feet dangled off the bed, and he kicked at the floral comforter. "He wanted to come with me. I let him."

El shook his head. "I remember seeing him in Culiacan. What about his parents? His family? Aren't they worried?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Sands snapped. "I'm not the fucking Yellow Pages. I don't have all the answers."

"No, you don't," El conceded. "But you know more than you are saying."

Sands said nothing. He reached into his pocket again and this time brought out a cigarette lighter. A search of his shirt pocket revealed a crumpled pack of cigarettes. "Smoke?"

Despite himself, El's eyes lit up at the sight of the battered cigarettes. He leaned forward until his butt left the chair and he could reach the pack. He pulled a cigarette free, then took the lighter Sands offered. Only when he had breathed in a deep lungful of smoke did he sit back down. "These are terrible," he said.

"I know," Sands said.

They sat in silence, smoking. El wondered where Chiclet had gone. In the room behind theirs, someone was snoring, the sound coming very clearly through the thin walls. Outside, the kids had begun to leave the pool, and the shouting was decreasing.

"You are not CIA anymore, are you?"

Sands exhaled a plume of smoke. He cocked his head back. El could almost see the sardonic amusement glinting in his eyes. "What makes you say that?"

"If you were, you would not be working with the cartels." El shook his head. "That may happen in the movies, but that does not happen in real life. Your government would never let you go undercover like that."

"You'd be surprised," Sands said cheerfully. "That kind of thing happens all the time. But you're right. I am no longer affiliated with the Central Intelligence Agency. I have been disavowed." His voice remained nonchalant, as if being abandoned by his own country was no more irritating than a stubbed toe.

"Then why are you still here?" El asked.

"Lots of reasons," Sands said. He stubbed his cigarette out on the bottom of his boot, then let it fall to the floor, which was carpeted in a shade of mauve El had not known existed before tonight.

"Tell me one reason," El persisted. He glanced toward the door, hoping Chiclet would be back soon, hoping the boy would stay away for a while longer yet.

"Do you know how they found you?" Sands asked. His voice was light, but his determination to change the subject was obvious from the way his jaw clenched. "It was your hand."

Startled, El glanced at his left hand. He had stopped wearing the bracer except for the nights he played the guitar. The scars there had long since stopped bothering him, and he no longer felt the need to hide them.

"Funny, isn't it? You can run, and you can hide, but there's always something that gives you away. That one identifying characteristic. That one thing you can't change about yourself." The bitterness in his words made El look up in surprise. Since their meeting in the cantina, it was the first time he had heard anything in Sands' voice besides demented good cheer.

Sands ignored his questioning look, however, and just lit another cigarette. El watched him closely, wondering if that outburst had been a precursor to even more erratic behavior, but Sands seemed to have regained his calm. He took a long drag on his cigarette. "People talk, El. People always talk."

"About me," El sighed. Perhaps one day he could be just "the mariachi" again, without a capital letter. But somehow, he rather doubted it.

"Eventually the word reached the right ears. Or the wrong ears, in your case. So one Friday night a pretty girl comes in with her giggling friends, and they sit at a table and you sing to them, and they swoon all over you, and they stay for a few hours and dance, and then they leave and they report to their boss that yep, the guy at the cantina is him, it's really him, El Mariachi. And next week, another pretty girl comes in with her pretty boyfriend, and you sing a romantic love song and they kiss and stare into each other's eyes and they dance together and then they leave and they make the same report. That girl last week, she was right. It really is El Mariachi. So the next week a group of yuppie businessmen come in and get totally hammered and you have to throw one of them out while his friends all protest that he didn't really mean anything, and they all stagger out of the parking lot and a car picks them up and they are suddenly very sober and very scared because oh yeah, that's El Mariachi in that dinky little cantina." Sands looked at him. "That, El, is how they found you."

His stomach twisted. How many times had he looked one of them right in the eye? How many times had he smiled at them? And they had smiled back. And he had never known, never guessed, who they really were.

"How did you find out?" he asked hoarsely.

"Like I said," drawled Sands, "eventually word reached the right ears. I might not be CIA any longer, but I still have my contacts. So when the cartels learned it was you, I made some discreet inquiries of my own. The reports came back with the same information. It was you." He shrugged. "I made it my business to be part of the team that was sent to take you down."

This was where El became confused. He wanted to know just what, exactly, Sands' role in all this was. "Back there, you made it sound like you had told those men that I wouldn't be in the cantina when the bomb went off. But I would have been, if you hadn't been there. Their plan would have worked. Why did you lie to them?"

Sands sighed. "Jeez, you really do have trouble seeing the big picture, don't you?"

"Then make me see it," El demanded. He did not trust Sands, but in his limited experience, the man could be surprisingly honest sometimes. El just hoped this was one of those occasions. He was still trying to decide what to think about everything that had happened so far, and he needed more information before he could decide anything.

"Think about it," Sands said. "I used to be CIA. I was involved with an attempted coup d'etat. Because of that involvement, one of the biggest drug lords in Mexico was killed. My ass was on the line. I had two choices. I could run and hide, or I could stay out in the open. So I got in touch with the very people who wanted me dead. I offered them my services, my network of contacts, and all the information I had, in exchange for immunity." He shrugged. "They accepted."

El felt disgusted. "After everything they did to Culiacan, and to the people of this country, you allied yourself with cartel?"

"I could have tried to hide," Sands said. "But that always comes back to bite you in the ass. _You_ should know all about that.

"Anyway, I got bored after a while. That's why we're sitting here now, having this conversation. I'm tired of listening to them and their stupid beliefs. I want out. And the only way I can do that is if I have you on my side."

Coming from anyone else, this vote of confidence would have been flattering. Coming from Sands, it just made El feel dirty all over again. "But now you are a target," he said. "You are their enemy."

"Seems that way," Sands said brightly.

El finished his cigarette, then ground it out in the ashtray thoughtfully provided on the dresser. He looked pointedly at the butt Sands had dropped on the floor, but the other man ignored him.

A knock sounded at the front door. El jumped, one hand reaching for his weapon. "It's just Chiclet," said Sands. He had not so much as flinched, El realized with embarrassment.

He let the boy in, glancing outside while the door was open. The kids had left the pool, and the courtyard was empty now. Satisfied with the silence, he let the door close and locked it behind him.

Chiclet had his arms full of packages from the vending machines. He had potato chips, chocolate snacks, pretzels, candy bars, and cans of soda pop. He spread the stash out on the bed, then selected a bag of pretzels, a Snickers bar, and a can of Coke and gave them to Sands, who was still sitting on the second bed.

"Thanks," Sands said, and tore into the bag of pretzels.

El stared at the bounty spread on the bed. There was an awful lot of food there, and he had not heard the jingle of any change in Chiclet's pockets when he had left. Stolen, then. The machines jimmied open so the boy could reach in and take what he wanted. Probably Sands had taught him how to do it.

Sighing, he reached for a Twinkie.

* * *

Only Chiclet slept that night.

Sands stretched out on the bed he had claimed, fully dressed, still wearing his sunglasses and all his guns. He lay flat on his back, unmoving, one arm over his head. He gave the impression of a coiled blacksnake, lazy now but ready to strike at any moment.

El dragged the chair over to the window and sat where he could look out through the gap in the drapes. All night long he watched the courtyard and the swimming pool, looking for signs of suspicious activity. Occasionally he glanced behind him, checking to see if Sands had moved, but he was always disappointed.

On the bed behind him, Chiclet slept peacefully.

At some point, when the hour on the clock was in a vague zone between four and five, Sands spoke. "You know, you could have done the same thing."

It was as if their conversation from earlier in the evening had never been interrupted. "I would never join a cartel," El said. He kept his voice low out of respect for Chiclet, but he made no effort to hide his scorn.

"But you could have," Sands said. "You came face to face with Bucho. Your own brother was a drug lord. And you had a choice. You could have joined him."

"I had no choice," El said.

"You had a choice," Sands repeated.

"I had no choice!" El shouted, overriding him. On the bed, Chiclet frowned and burrowed deeper under the covers, but did not wake up.

"Okay," Sands said, conceding defeat. "You had no choice. But say you did. On the one hand, kill your brother and become the most wanted man in all of Mexico. On the other hand, swear allegiance to him and get to live with the woman you love in relative wealth and comfort. What do you choose?"

"He would have killed Carolina anyway," El said miserably, "just to punish me."

"Was that her name? I never knew." Sands continued to stare up at the ceiling. "Well, then I guess maybe it wasn't really much of a choice, after all."

El said nothing. Killing Cesar was one of the things he had never forgiven himself for. He doubted he ever would. Of all the blood that had stained his hands over the years, the blood of family still remained. That stain would never wash away.

"Well, then let me ask you this. Was it worth it? The choices you made?"

El stared out at the empty swimming pool, seeing it but not seeing it. The years had blunted Carolina's memory, but he could still feel fresh pain when he thought about her. Would he trade the years of happiness he had known with her? Were they worth this current pain and loneliness? He no longer knew.

"I only ask because you know, as of last July, your beloved El Presidente is presidente no more. And the new regime has made it clear that they not only despise cartel, but that they want any such blights upon Mexico's image wiped out. And that means you."

El blinked, needing a moment to adjust to the idea that Sands was not talking about Carolina anymore. He turned around to face his accuser. "What do you know about that?"

"Not a lot," Sands said. "But enough. I know they are embarrassed by the coup, and they want all traces of it destroyed."

"That should not be hard to do," El said. "Marquez and Barillo are both dead."

"So they are," Sands agreed.

"Yet you are still alive," El said.

"Still standing," Sands said proudly. "Oh yes, I'm on their list. Just one more reason to join the cartels, you see. I needed their protection."

El thought of the former president, a man he had respected, a man he had saved. That man had pardoned his crimes, but apparently the new El Presidente was not so forgiving. "Why don't you go back to America?" he asked.

"That's an idea," Sands said, in the tones of one who had no intention whatsoever of even considering the thought.

"Somewhere else, then. Canada. Brazil." _Anywhere but Mexico_.

"Maybe." Sands yawned, the first time El had heard him admit to being tired. "Maybe not."

"Where, then?"

"Who says I am running away? What makes you think I am going anywhere?"

"You cannot stay here. That is obvious even to me. You are caught between the government and the cartels. Where can you go?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Sands said. "I am not entirely without resources in this country."

_Neither am I,_ El thought. He had Lorenzo and Fideo. They would come if he called them, although they would be hurt by his long silence. Yet still they would come. He felt a little warmer inside when he thought of them. He did not have to be alone if he did not want to be. He had friends. It was about time he remembered that.

"Neither am I," he said. "And it is time for me to go."

Sands sat up in a single, fluid motion. One of his guns was aimed at El's head. "I don't think so, El."

"You won't shoot me," El said. "You need me to stay alive."

"Actually, that's not true anymore," Sands said. "I needed you to stay alive last night. Now it doesn't matter. I could kill you and bury you in the dirt and no one need ever know. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, you would still be on the run with me. And that's all I really need. For people to think what I want them to think."

El narrowed his eyes. A man like Sands would never stop scheming and plotting, but sooner or later even the greatest of plans came crashing down. Something was rotten here, but El could not quite grasp what it was. He only knew that there was more to the story than what Sands was telling him. Something hidden, something secret. Something he needed to discover.

"If I stay," he said, "where would we go?"

"Nowhere, for now," Sands said. "They'll know by now that you escaped the bombing. They'll be searching around Guadalajara. It's best to lie low. When they've moved on, so will we."

Not happy with the prospect of spending too much time in these close quarters with Sands, El gestured to the sleeping boy. "And what about him?"

"Chiclet? He'll be fine. He always is." Sands rose from the bed and slowly removed his guns, dropping the shoulder holsters onto the bedspread. "I'm going for a walk," he said. "Wake Chiclet up at six, and he'll go get us some breakfast." He walked toward the door, fingers trailing over the surface of the dresser until they touched the room key. He snatched it up with a flourish, never breaking stride, sparing El not even the briefest of glances as he passed by.

And then he was out the door and gone, and El was left alone with only a sleeping teenage boy for company.


	5. El Learns a Secret

Chapter 5

El Learns a Secret

Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez is god. I worship at his feet.

Note: This chapter contains naughty language and some violence. It also contains the moment you have all been waiting for.

* * *

At a quarter to six, El finally grew tired of waiting for something to happen. He was feeling physically tired as well; it was nearing the time he normally started to think about going to bed. He was going to have to find some way to keep himself awake all day. He could not afford to show any weakness in front of Sands.

He let himself out the door and went to stand against the balcony railing. Sunrise was an hour away, and it was still dark. The pre-dawn air was cool and comfortable, a gentle reminder why he had chosen this area of the country as his new home. The motel courtyard was empty, lit by a single lamppost situated beyond the fence encircling the pool. Lights shone in a few windows, but most of the motel was still asleep. Beyond the pool, an expanse of grass led to a laundry room where a bundle of dirty linen was just visible atop a washing machine near the door.

Sands was nowhere in sight.

El stood against the balcony railing, wishing he had another cigarette. Soon it would be time to wake Chiclet. And that was why he had come out here. He wanted fresh air while he thought about Chiclet, and a conversation he had not been meant to hear. The boy was the key, he was sure of it. He just needed to get Chiclet alone.

He had gone into the bathroom around midnight. He had let the water run in the sink for a time, then quietly turned it off and crept toward the door. He had leaned his ear against the peeling paint, and he had heard voices.

"He's going to find out," Chiclet had said.

"Of course he will," Sands had said. "But later, hopefully, rather than sooner."

"You should just tell him."

"I am not telling him anything. And neither are you." Sands had paused. "Turn up the volume. He's listening."

Chiclet had cranked the volume on the TV then and El had no longer been able to eavesdrop, but he had heard enough. Sands did indeed have a secret, and Chiclet knew what it was. Sands would never tell, but with enough coaxing, the boy could probably be persuaded to talk. El just needed to find the right method, and enough time alone with the boy. Once he got Chiclet on his side, he would feel more comfortable about the whole situation.

Movement down below caught his attention. Someone was walking along the lower level of the motel, coming toward El. The man walked slowly, his head down. He was still wearing those stupid sunglasses, and he was smoking.

El pursed his lips. He suddenly found himself wondering if Sands had made a phone call. Perhaps he had walked down to the motel lobby and used their phone. Perhaps he had decided to take back his actions of the night before, and offer up El Mariachi for real this time.

Or maybe he had just wanted some fresh air, too.

Sands walked on. He looked different without all his guns. Smaller. It was strange, El thought, but he seemed diminished somehow without any weapons to back him up. This Sands bore only a superficial resemblance to the one in Culiacan who had offered El a bite of his pork and a cell phone.

The door to one of the rooms on the first level opened. A man stepped out. He wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He had dark hair cropped in a severe crew-cut, and he was barefoot. The TV in his room was still on, and for a moment El heard the voice of a reporter from an early morning news program, before the door closed and the sound was shut out.

The man looked to his right. Up above on the balcony, El stepped back so he would not be in sight. He counted to five, then moved forward again.

Crew-cut was now following Sands.

Curious, El waited to see what would happen.

Sands kept walking. He did not slow his stride, but his head came up. One hand twitched toward his hip, and the guns he no longer carried. For a moment an expression of anger flickered across his face, then he was calm again.

The man in the white T-shirt moved to his right, onto the grassy area of the courtyard. He squatted down and pulled up one leg of his jeans. From a sheath strapped to his ankle, he pulled out a knife. Even under the poor lighting in the courtyard, the knife looked very sharp.

Sands stopped walking. He turned around.

The man with the knife eased forward. Sands said something, so low that El could not make out the words.

Crew-cut attacked. He moved with speed and grace, a knife fighter in his element. El watched as Sands let him come on. Only at the last moment did Sands twist away, and the man in the white T-shirt skipped right on past him.

Now Crew-cut was in constant motion. He circled Sands, his knife hand high and ready. On the concrete of the sidewalk, his feet made no sound. His shadow swooped and dived over the doors and windows of the rooms on the first floor. When he stepped on the grass, the legs of his jeans grew dark with morning dew.

Sands turned in a smaller circle, always a beat behind Crew-cut. He held his hands up, ready to defend himself. In contrast to his normal behavior, he moved awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Apparently, El mused, learning to fight with knives was not part of a CIA officer's education.

Crew-cut lunged forward. Sands dodged the first attack, but then Crew-cut danced to the right, and this time Sands was too slow. The knife slashed along his arm, cutting the fabric of his sleeve and revealing a flash of skin red with blood.

Sands jerked back with a hiss. "Fucker!"

Crew-cut did not respond to the insult. He just slipped around behind Sands, the knife ready.

Watching the fight, El was baffled. He could understand luring men into false confidence, but this bordered on the ludicrous. Sands behaved like a drunk, or a blind man, lurching about in circles, acting as though he could not even see his attacker.

It seemed impossible that Crew-cut could fall for such a ruse, but he did. He came in again, attacking low, sweeping the knife at Sands' chest. Sands leaped back with another curse. He lashed out with his fists but missed by a wide margin. The man in the white T-shirt ducked the blows and swiped the knife sideways. A second cut joined the first, this one low on Sands' abdomen.

This had gone far enough. Whoever the knife fighter was, he had found them, and that alone was reason enough to stop him. El started to draw his gun, then hesitated. It was almost six o'clock in the morning. A gunshot fired now would create panic and bring the police to the motel. He and Sands and Chiclet would be on the run, and in their haste, they would probably run straight into the waiting arms of the cartel surrounding the city. The man with the knife had to be stopped, but as quietly as possible.

What he wouldn't give for one of Carolina's throwing knives, he thought.

He had just made up his mind to head for the stairs when he heard a door open behind him. He turned and crouched low, his hand pulling his gun free, moving of its own accord.

The boy stopped dead when he saw the gun aimed at him. "What are--" he began.

"Sshhh!" El pressed a finger to his lips. If the man in the white T-shirt heard them, he would target them next. There was always a chance that the man was here only for Sands. El had no intention of revealing himself unless he had to.

He glanced over the railing and frowned. Sands was bleeding in three places now, and while Crew-cut was nursing a bloody nose, he was still hopping nimbly around, not even winded yet. It was patently obvious that unless El intervened soon, the fight was going to end with one very dead American.

Not that this was necessarily a bad thing, El mused.

Chiclet walked forward, brow furrowed, wondering what he was looking at. "What is it?" he whispered. He peered over the railing. His eyes bulged. He grabbed at El's sleeve. "Help him!" he cried, managing to keep his voice down in an impressive act of self-control.

"Sands can take care of himself," El said. Perversely, now that the boy had shown up, he felt less inclined to step into the fight. His first instinct was to protect Chiclet. The boy might have skill with a gun, but he would have no chance at all against a grown man wielding a knife.

"No, he can't!" Chiclet implored. "You have to help him!"

El dragged him back from the railing. Below he heard the sound of a fist meeting flesh, and someone grunted. A split second later metal clattered on concrete as Crew-cut dropped the knife.

"You see?" El said. "He is doing just fine."

"Let go!" Chiclet struggled to free his arm from El's grasp. He was almost as tall as El, but many pounds lighter. When physical strength failed him, he tried another tactic, his hand snaking downward and reaching for El's pistol.

El let go of him, twisting his hips and stepping backward so the boy could not grab the gun. "What are you doing? Do you want to alert the entire motel that we are here?"

"Shoot him!" Chiclet hissed. "You have to help Sands!"

"Why?" El asked. He glanced around, mildly amazed that so far no one had yet seen the drama being enacted in the courtyard. The outer façade of the motel pressed against his back. If he were to reach out just a few inches to his left, he could touch the window of someone's room. Whoever was staying in there, he hoped they were soundly asleep.

Chiclet stared at him in mute agony. He moved closer to the railing and glanced over. Anxiety drew lines on his face, making him look much older than his age. El heard metal scrape concrete, and he knew someone had just picked up the knife. Judging by Chiclet's expression, it was not Sands.

Chiclet bolted. El lunged for him, but the boy moved too fast; his hands only closed on thin air. "Come back!" he cried as loudly as he dared, but Chiclet paid him no mind. The boy raced around the corner, headed for the stairwell that would take him down to the first floor.

El ran after him, cursing the boy's impulsive loyalty. If Chiclet got hurt, it would be his own damn fault – but El would still blame himself.

Youthful fear gave Chiclet speed. There was no chance of catching him. El jumped down the steps two and three at a time, then leaped the last few stairs and landed hard on the sidewalk. Fiery pain shot through his ankles, and his knees buckled. He groaned, but forced himself to stand up and move faster. Even so, he was several paces behind Chiclet when he finally rounded the corner of the building.

The fight was nearly over. Sands was backed against the wall, his hands raised in front of him as though he intended to stop the blade with his bare flesh. Crew-cut was feinting forward then drawing back, taunting his prey. Blood dripped from the knife onto the sidewalk. When El came around the corner, he was looking up in surprise at the teenaged boy who had suddenly entered the picture.

"Stop!" Chiclet shouted.

Crew-cut's gaze went from Chiclet to El, and his dark eyes went very wide. "It's you!" he gasped.

The instant the words left his mouth, Sands leaped at him. He seized Crew-cut's chin in one hand and slapped his other hand flat on the side of the man's head. Crew-cut squawked in terror and brought the knife up, but it was already too late for him. One swift wrench of Sands' wrists, and he was dead with a broken neck.

Chiclet ran up to Sands. "Are you all right?" he cried.

Sands stood over the dead man, breathing hard. His hair hung in his face, and his sunglasses were askew. He reached up with a shaking hand and straightened them. "I'm fine," he snapped. El wondered who he was angry with – the man who had nearly killed him, or himself for almost being killed.

"Who was that?" Chiclet asked. He took Sands' arm, then let go as Sands hissed in pain and drew back.

Slowly El walked toward them, looking all around for signs of further danger. Yet no one was running out of their room. No lights were springing on behind windows. For the time being, they were safe. No one knew that a man had just been murdered.

There was blood on the green-painted stucco, where Sands had been leaning on it. It looked black under the orange light of the courtyard. El stared at it, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu, remembering a street in Santa Cecilia, and a boy leading him to safety along an empty street while his blood decorated a stone wall.

Chiclet had slipped an arm about Sands' waist, offering his support to his injured friend. He glared up at El. "You take care of this," he said, nudging Crew-cut with his foot. He did not look at the body.

El blinked in surprise. He had not exactly thought the boy was squeamish, but this callous reaction was not at all what he had expected. Thirteen-year olds were not supposed to be so hardened to death. Especially when their friend was the one who had done the killing.

"Good ol' El." Sands smirked. "Here comes the cavalry, and all that. Only you're just a little too late. Were you busy placing a bet against me?"

"You were doing just fine," El said.

"Fuck you," Sands said wearily.

Chiclet gave El another dirty look. Something about his innocent anger made El feel ashamed of himself. Then an instant later the shame was replaced by annoyance. He would not let the boy make him feel guilty. Why should he have been expected to come to his enemy's aid? Had the situation been reversed, he had no illusions about what would have happened. Sands would have stood there and watched him bleed to death, and enjoyed every minute of it.

Sands and Chiclet began walking down the sidewalk. Or rather, Chiclet walked. Sands limped. He swayed, and bumped into Chiclet. The boy was knocked to one side, then he righted himself. "It's not far to the stairs," he said. "Eight steps. You can do it."

Blood spattered the sidewalk, too, not just the wall. El frowned. He could see no means of washing it off, and removing Crew-cut's body was his first priority, anyway. It had to be after six o'clock now. It would not be long before the first early risers left their rooms, ready to check out and begin a new day.

There was no way out of this, El realized. Every room in the motel would be searched, every guest questioned. The police probably had Sands' description, and quite possibly even his own. Their only chance now lay in escape. They could check into a different hotel, a more expensive one. The cartels would expect them to continue to use cheap motels like this one. If they defied expectation, they could stay in hiding, and eventually leave the city unnoticed.

"Hurry," he said. "We have to leave. Now."

"Then leave," Chiclet muttered. He did not even glance up.

Sands groaned something that was undoubtedly an insult. He staggered forward another step, and then his knees buckled. Taken off guard, Chiclet had no time to catch him.

Sands hit the ground hard, first on his knees, then on all fours. His sunglasses were knocked off. For a moment he swayed like he might get up, then he collapsed facedown onto the pavement.

Immediately Chiclet crouched over him. He shook Sands' shoulder. "Señor. Wake up."

Sands did not stir. His hair covered his face, but he was obviously unconscious. El let out his breath. "We have to go," he said. "We will find a new place to stay. We can call a doctor for him."

"No," Chiclet said immediately. He stayed where he was, protecting his friend. "No doctor."

They could argue about it later. Right now there was no time. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to flee, to get out before someone saw him. El walked forward, hoping he could prod Sands awake. He did not want to carry the man unless he absolutely had to.

"Wait." Chiclet pointed to Sands' sunglasses. "He needs those."

A puddle of blood was starting to form on the sidewalk beneath Sands. El stopped in front of Chiclet. "Let me," he said.

The boy did not move. He remained in his crouch, staring stubbornly up at El. Tears of fury glinted in his dark eyes. "I told you he needed help. This is all your fault."

That absurd sense of guilt crept back. "How is this my fault?"

"I told you," Chiclet said. He took a deep breath, then let it out in a plaintive sound of misery. "Look." He reached down and gently drew Sands' hair back. "He can't see. He's blind."

El looked down, and he saw.

Horror blasted through him. Every fiber of his body turned cold. Even his brain went numb, so he could scarcely form a coherent thought. He could not stop staring at the hollows in Sands' face, those dark holes where his eyes should have been.

"Barillo's men did this to him," Chiclet said. "He didn't want you to know." His tone became accusatory again. "I told you he needed help!"

It didn't seem possible. Sands moved with such confidence, with such grace. He walked through crowded cantinas and empty motel rooms with ease. He had stood at El's side and wielded a gun as skillfully as anyone. How could he be blind?

El sank to his knees on the sidewalk, unable to tear his gaze away from Sands' face. How could he not have known? It was too incredible. He had sat right next to Sands in the back seat of the car for hours. They had sat awake through the night and talked like old companions. And he had never known, never guessed the truth.

Little things began to click in his mind, things that had nagged at him as being strange at the time, yet not strange enough to warrant investigation. Chiclet announcing their new parking space. The careful way Sands walked across the motel room, his fingers barely touching the surface of the dresser. The fact that he had not turned to look behind him, when El had pretended to see something in the parking lot behind the cantina. His awkward performance against the dead man with the knife.

Suddenly it all made sense. "I didn't know," he whispered.

"Don't stare at him!" The tears were gone; Chiclet looked ready to pounce. "He hates being stared at!"

El gave himself a small shake, finally looking away from the horrible sight of Sands' missing eyes. Now he knew why Chiclet had followed Sands out of Culiacan. And with that knowledge came another, more bitter truth. No matter what he said or did, he would never gain this boy's trust or loyalty.

"All right." He swallowed hard, trying not to look down again, but unable to help himself. There was something horribly compelling about those empty eyesockets. "Help me get him up."

Together they managed to get Sands off the ground, Chiclet glaring at him the whole time, mutely accusing him of not being gentle enough. Still trying unsuccessfully not to stare, El finally maneuvered Sands into lying facedown over his right shoulder in a position that made it easy to carry him.

He stood up with a grunt. Slender as he was, Sands was still heavy. "Come on," he said. He glanced one more time around the courtyard, wondering who would be the first to find Crew-cut's body. "Someone will come soon."

Chiclet hurried to follow him. But first, the boy stopped and retrieved Sands' sunglasses. "I'm ready," he said.


	6. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Chapter 6

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Disclaimer: I own nothing, yada yada yada, Robert Rodriguez yada yada yada.

Rating: T for language. You know how it is, once Sands opens his mouth...

* * *

The first time Sands woke, he was in the back of a car. His head was in someone's lap. That same someone was holding his hand. If he squinted, he could almost see the smoke-colored upholstery covering the Chevy's ceiling.

"Turn right," a voice said. It came from above his head. Chiclet.

Good ol' Chiclet.

_Listen, I need you to get something for me. You're probably gonna need your bike, though, okay?_

_Sí._

_It's in a black bag, in my apartment. The lock's busted, you'll have to find a way to get inside. Bring it back here, but don't get too close if the men with guns are still around. Got it?_

_Sí._

Good kid. He'd not only brought the fake arm that had saved his life when Ajedrez came out to finish him off, he'd left a second time and brought real help.

And now. . . now what?

The click of a turn signal was driving him mad. Chiclet's fingers were cold. He let himself fall into the waiting blackness again.

* * *

The second time Sands woke he was lying on his back on the world's softest bed.

Muted voices came from his left. They were talking about the cleaning power of Ajax. The room smelled of blood.

"Chiclet?" The word came out in a gummy moan.

"I'm here." A hand crashed down on his forehead.

He sank.

* * *

_Mask of hideous bandages. Peering, glaring eyes. You've been spying on my operation for some time._

_Desperate attempt to be brave. I feel it's only fair to warn you that killing me would be crossing the line, and you will have every single Marine from here to Guatánamo Bay up your keister, mister. So just know that._

_Fortunately for you, nothing you did is worth dying over. You have only _seen_ too much._

_We are going to make sure that doesn't happen again._

_Hands gripping him, holding him down. Metal whirring. A woman laughing. His own panicky, terrified breathing._

_He would not scream. He would not scream. Hewouldnotscream. Hewouldnot—_

A short cry exploded from his throat. He jerked, one arm flailing, the other bound to his chest by something soft.

"Sands." Chiclet's voice came from his left.

It was enough to ground him in reality. The last of the dream faded, leaving him with just the dull aftertaste. "Where are we?"

"The Plaza Genova," Chiclet said. Glass clinked, and he heard the sound of water being poured, the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

"Drink," Chiclet said. Obediently he tried to lift his head, only to find it weighed a ton. Chiclet helped him, and he drank greedily.

He hurt all over. Knife fights always ended badly. Especially when he was one of the participants.

"Where's El?" he asked.

"I am here," came the mariachi's voice. It sounded from across the room. He wondered if El resented patching him up. He wondered if El was feeling guilty right now for waiting so long to intervene. He hoped so. He sincerely hoped so.

"What time is it?" God, he hated to having to ask such stupid questions. It was hard enough to stay in control of things nowadays without some annoying loss-of-consciousness to deal with too.

"Four o'clock," Chiclet said. "The same day," he added helpfully.

He'd been out almost the whole damn day. That was not good. He took a deep breath, then immediately regretted it. He groaned. How many times had he been cut? He'd lost track after four.

Fucking knives.

And then suddenly he remembered something. Falling. Striking the ground. Hearing the click of plastic hitting concrete. The cool air on his face. "Chiclet." He spoke quietly, not wanting El to hear. The boy had to lean down to hear him, so that warm breath misted his cheek. "Does he know?"

Chiclet's breath caught, then resumed. "Yes," he whispered.

"Fuck!" Sands shouted.

* * *

The afternoon was hot and sunny.

His sleeping self, the part of him that knew he was dreaming, snarled and tried to pull free of the dream. He hated dreaming about sunlight and sight – sunsight – even more than he hated dreaming about Barillo. At least the dark dreams did not give him false hope.

There was no stopping it. He was a prisoner of his dreaming self.

He walked down the street, bopped down it, more accurately. Cell phone pressed to his ear, itchy fake mustache pressed to his upper lip. The boy in the yellow T-shirt was riding his way, dinging that damn bell.

_I don't ever want to see you again. Fuck off._

One wish come true.

The sunlight dimmed, sending shadows reaching across the day. He began walking a little faster. He had to keep going. If he slowed down he would be caught and dragged into a shadowed doorway further up the street, like a moon tugged toward a large planet with a dark gravitational pull.

Someone was standing in the doorway, blocking it. Their face was in shadow, and all he could see was a silhouette. It looked vaguely familiar, but in a way that sent dread spiking through his heart.

He walked down the street, trying to hurry. He drew even with the doorway and then stopped dead. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Suddenly he could not make his legs move. He could walk no further. The shadow in the doorway had begun exerting its pull, and he was sliding helplessly into its grip.

Inane lyrics filled his head, lines from Chiclet's favorite song, heard over and over until he had smashed the radio, but still the kid had sung it under his breath, just to piss him off.

_Que voy a hacer_

_Je ne sais pas_

_Que voy a hacer_

_Je ne sais plus_

_Que voy a hacer_

_Je suis perdu_

His stupid brain insisted on translating the lyrics. He spoke them into the cell phone, even though there was no one on the other end because they had cut him off, turned him loose, thrown him to the wolves. He was on his own now.

"_What am I going to do?_

_I don't know._

_What am I going to do?_

_I don't know anymore._

_What am I going to do?_

_I am lost."_

And now his feet began to work again, only they were taking him in the exact opposite direction he wanted to go, toward the shadowy figure in the doorway. It had hair down to its shoulders, and it was wearing a suit jacket. There was something wet on its face.

"No," he whimpered. He did not want to go through that door. He wanted to stay here, walking his beat, throwing shapes for other people to catch. He wanted to stay here in the sunsight.

Chiclet dinged the bell again. He looked around frantically, searching for someone to save him, but the people on the street had vanished. Only the sound of their passage remained, shuffling footsteps and whooshing cars and disembodied voices.

Shadows completely covered the doorway, blotting out the afternoon sun. The figure standing there was close enough to touch now.

He dropped the cell phone, recoiling in horror. Whining in the back of his throat. Shaking his head.

No, please. He did not want this.

Against his will, he stepped through the doorway.

The light disappeared.

He stumbled out onto the street, his hands held pitifully before him, feeling the way.

_I can't see!_

_

* * *

_Eventually he realized that he was awake, and some of the panic receded. Just a dream, damnit. True, he couldn't see, but it was just a dream. Same old shit, different day.

He became aware that he was curled up. And whimpering. Disgusted with himself, he throttled the pathetic sounds mid-whimper and forced his body to relax.

What a day this was turning out to be.

The room was quiet. Somewhere to his right, Chiclet was breathing in long, soft snores. The air felt cooler, much cooler, so it had to be night.

He was thirsty. And he hurt all over. His arm, his stomach, his leg, the side of his neck. He felt like a mummy, wrapped all over in bandages.

It was all too familiar, he thought wryly. He had very few memories of the days after the disastrous coup, but one thing he did remember was the annoying stretch and pull of bandages.

He remembered a few other things, too. Mostly in flashes. Nothing you could call coherent, unless you were being really generous. The sound of Chiclet crying. The warmth of sunlight on his face. Pain. Lots of pain. Wooden floorboards. Jorge Ramirez speaking formless words.

To this day he wasn't sure how long it had all lasted. Most of November, he knew that much. One of his first truly stable memories from that time was hearing Christmas carols sung in Spanish. So he figured he had surfaced from his delirium sometime in mid-December. Possibly sooner. It hadn't been until Christmas Day itself that he had finally captured time and made it his own again. Everything before then was choked with haze and pain.

He had never asked Chiclet what he had said and done during those dark weeks. He didn't really want to know – some of the things he had raved about while feverish might be embarrassing. The only thing he knew for certain was that he had not screamed and ranted and had a breakdown, defying everyone's expectations. He knew this because he had heard them talking about him one day soon after his return to the conscious world. They had been worried about "setting him off." Jorge Ramirez had firmly said that if he hadn't gone off by now, he never would, and they could all just stop tiptoeing around thank you very much, or he, Jorge, was going to go crazy.

He remembered lying on his bed and grinning upon hearing that, a cold, hard grin that had hurt his mouth. But it had been a true expression, not the fake platitudes he had been serving up for so long, and after that he had recovered quickly. By the New Year, he had been gone from Culiacan for good, taking Chiclet with him.

And now it was happening all over again. He was hurt, and Chiclet had to take care of him. Only this time the boy did not have any family around to help. There was no former FBI agent grudgingly offering advice. There was only a thirteen-year old kid doing the best he could.

And El Mariachi.

Sands swallowed hard, tasting bitter resentment. He licked his lips experimentally. "El?"

"What?" the mariachi asked.

Shit. So El was awake. And El had heard every pathetic noise he had made in his dream and after. Things just kept going downhill.

"Do you need anything?" El asked.

Now that was a loaded question if Sands had ever heard one. He lacked the energy to give it a proper response, however, so he just sighed. "Some water would be nice. Or tequila."

"The only tequila is in the mini-bar," El said. "And I am not paying ten dollars for it. So you get water."

A long moment of silence passed while Sands struggled to accept that El Mariachi had just tried to make a joke. "Whatever. Just get me some damn water." He paused, then asked, "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven-thirty," El said. The chains on his pants and jacket jingled as he stood up and moved across the room. A bottle cap was unscrewed. Glass clinked and water gurgled. He walked over to the bed and the mattress shifted slightly as he leaned over it.

Sands instinctively flinched. He couldn't help it. Never again would he be able to lie flat on his back and feel comfortable with someone leaning over him.

El must have seen him flinch. The mariachi hesitated. "Can you sit up?"

Flushing with dull fury, Sands nodded. When he spoke however, he kept his voice light. "Oh, I don't think I'm ready for a wheelchair just yet."

He managed to sit up on his own, thank Christ for small favors. It hurt, but he refused to let that stop him. Everything was going to hurt for a while. He was just going to have to deal with it.

"Here." El sounded strangely uncertain. "Your glass."

Sands resisted the urge to commit violent, messy murder. He had been dealing with Chiclet for so long, he had forgotten what it was like to be around someone who did not understand. He and Chiclet had developed a shorthand over the years, learning quickly what worked and what didn't. With Chiclet, he rarely felt like he was blind.

With El, it was all he could think about.

He slapped out his hand. "Give it here."

Glass touched his fingers. He grabbed it, half-hoping it would slip and fall so he could then scrabble for it and throw it at El. No such luck. He got a firm grip on the glass, and he was able to drink.

The water was cold. He drank it all, despite the fact that it made his head ache. When he was finished, he held out the empty glass. The instant he felt El's hand touch it, he let go. "I have to take a piss."

Chains jingled as El moved back from the bed. The glass thumped as the mariachi set it on a hard surface. "Do you want me to help?" For the second time, that note of uncertainty overlay El's words, making him sound younger, and less of an asshole.

"Christ, El, I can piss by myself," he snapped wearily. He pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the bed. It hurt, especially in his left leg, and he winced in a sharp breath.

"I should hope so," El said, a little too formally. And yes, that was indeed guilt in the mariachi's voice. Sands was damn glad to hear it. "I meant, do you want me to help you walk to the bathroom?"

He did not reply right away. He wished Chiclet was awake. He did not mind when Chiclet took him by the hand and led him around an unfamiliar room. The kid did not make him feel stupid or clumsy or lost. Chiclet knew the things to tell him so he could orient himself and find his own way. Chiclet knew the dangers an ordinary room posed to a blind man, and Chiclet knew the best and quickest way to reduce those dangers.

El, on the other hand, was a fucking moron.

He sighed. "Whatever floats your boat." He held out his right hand; the left was currently snugged against his chest by the sling wrapped around his neck.

After a long moment in which he could hear a clock ticking, El took his hand.

The mariachi's fingers were rough and callused. All those years of playing guitar, Sands supposed. But his grip was steady. Sands used El's weight to brace himself as he pushed and heaved to his feet.

Standing up was not a good idea. The world kept wanting to tilt alarmingly. Everything hurt. He hung his head, concentrating on breathing in and out, aware that he was clinging to El's hand but unable to let go.

After a length of time comparable to an Ice Age, the pain receded enough to let him stand up straight. He let go of El's hand and walked his fingers up the mariachi's wrist until he could comfortably grip El's forearm. "Lead on."

El set a slow pace. Sands was grateful for it, but at the same time, royally pissed off. He hated feeling this way. Worse, he hated feeling this way in front of El. Worst of all, he hated El for being so nice to him.

The room was big. Either that or they were moving more slowly than he thought. Whatever the reason, it seemed to take forever to reach the bathroom. Chains jangled, and he heard a light switch flip on. This struck him as incredibly funny, and he wheezed with laughter. "Wouldn't want me to bump into anything in the dark, hey, El?"

The arm beneath his hand tensed.

"Blind men don't need light switches. You weren't thinking, were you, El? But you're not sorry, are you?" He heard the brittle note in his voice, revealing how upset he was, but he could not rein it back. "You're not going to apologize, are you? Because that would piss me off. And then I might have to kill you."

El stood still for a long moment. Then he said, "The sink and toilet are on the right. Shower is on the left."

Sands patted his arm. "Good boy."

* * *

When he was done in the bathroom, he shuffled back out onto the bedroom carpet. He had discovered that he was wearing clothes that were most definitely not the ones he had been wearing this morning. And while he was not exactly enamored of blood-stiffened jeans, he was even less pleased by the thought of El Mariachi having something to do with his clean state.

Three steps away from the door, he paused. El was standing close by; he could sense it. The mariachi probably was wondering if he should offer assistance again, and how to do that without startling the poor, lost blind man.

He looked in the direction of El's breathing. "Feel free to stand there all night."

El made a guilty noise. "I--"

Sands raised his right hand. "I can do it," he said icily.

On the way here, he had counted the steps to the bathroom. He retraced them now, halving their number, forcing himself to ignore the pain and walk at something approaching a normal pace. He was pleased to find the bed right where he had expected it, and he sank down with a smirk. "See, I'm not so helpless after all."

"I would not say you were helpless," El said. It was the voice of a man who appreciated for the first time that his roommate was a killer. It was also the voice of a man who was not planning to sleep any time soon, not while that killer was awake and nearby. "Not after watching you take down those men last night."

Sands shrugged, using only his right shoulder. All that walking around had aggravated the pain of his wounds, and he wanted to lie down again. "Gunfights are easy," he said. "You'd be surprised. It's the little things that are hard."

El did not ask him what he meant by this, which was just as well. He had a sneaking suspicion that it hadn't made any sense, anyway.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Christ, he hurt! He remembered how toward the end, shortly before he had left Culiacan, Ramirez had apologized for the weeks he had suffered. They had access to morphine but they hadn't wanted to give him any. They had thought he would become addicted. "You were never very stable to begin with," Ramirez had added.

He had just laughed.

Right now, he thought morphine sounded like an excellent idea. Too bad he wasn't about to get any.

"None of your injuries are serious," El said. "The cuts are shallow."

"I know," Sands said. On his orders, Ramón had used a blunted knife.

Poor Ramón. Who had volunteered for this assignment without really understanding what it was all about. Who had not yet heard that five of his _compadres_ were dead under Sands' guns. Who had waited in his room by the pool all night long, probably cursing Sands' name the entire time. And then at last Sands had left the motel room and made his way out to the courtyard, where he had placed a single phone call. Yet even then poor Ramón had been forced to wait a little while longer, until El showed up on the balcony below. Only then could the charade be set in motion.

Stupid, predictable, honorable El. He sincerely hoped that one day the mariachi would know what he had gone through for him. He had told Ramón to make it look real, and by Christ, that was exactly what had happened.

"I know you don't want to hear this," El said, "but I truly am sorry for what happened to you."

He knew El was not talking about the five new knife cuts adorning his body. Some other day, when he had the energy and could stand up without wanting to fall over, he would punch El in the face for that remark. "You and me both," he said.

"Chiclet--" El hesitated when he said the boy's name, perhaps unwilling to accept that someone would let himself be named for chewing gum. "Chiclet would not tell me anything about it."

Of course Chiclet hadn't said anything. Sands had never doubted the kid's loyalty, but it still made him feel good to hear the proof. "So, you expect to hear the gory details firsthand, is that it?"

Suddenly he wished he was armed.

"Only if you are interested in telling them," said El.

"Well, what do you think?" He spoke in his laziest drawl. If Chiclet had been awake, he would have recognized the warning signs of the impending storm and ducked for cover.

"I think you are a dangerous man," El said, changing the subject and apparently deciding that he did not want to hear all about the Day of the Dead after all. "I think you are hiding something from me. And I think I will stay with you, until my curiosity is satisfied."

The rage that had been growing in him popped like a soap bubble. Dancing glee took its place. It was all too easy. El was his now. So he would miss a few phone calls as a result of today's knife play. That was too bad, but it was a risk he had freely undertaken. Besides, it hardly mattered now. The end result would still be the same.

Sands smiled. "You're right. I am a dangerous man."

* * *

Author's Note: The lyrics Sands hears in his dream are from "Me Gustas Tu" on the OUATIM soundtrack. It's a nice song, but you do not want it stuck in your head. Trust me. 


	7. Killing Time

Chapter 7

Killing Time

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, except in my imagination. That honor belongs to Robert Rodriguez.

Author's Note: I have been horrible lately, and forgotten to thank my wonderful beta reader, Melody. She keeps me honest, and this story would not exist without her.

* * *

_I think you are a dangerous man. I think you are hiding something from me. And I think I will stay with you, until my curiosity is satisfied._

He had said it. Now he had to abide by it.

He sat in a plush armchair, nursing a glass of water. It was almost midnight now, and he was very tired, but he knew he would not sleep this night.

He watched as Sands squirmed around in the bed, trying to make himself more comfortable. The former CIA officer cursed and threw a pillow to the floor, then at last settled himself in a reclining position that allowed him to lie back on some of the thicker pillows while still giving the appearance of being alert and awake. He was obviously hurting, but he showed no sign of giving in to his pain.

El had to admit – and with less reluctance than he would have believed possible – that he respected Sands. Not many men could survive what had happened to him. Even fewer would be sitting here today, arrogant as ever, unbroken and unwilling to concede defeat. The only problem was, respect alone didn't get you much. He had respected his brother, after all. And at the end of the day, Cesar was still dead.

There was pity mingled with that respect, too, but he was not allowed to act on it. Sands would not tolerate pity of any kind. He had seen that already. He would be expected to provide assistance when necessary, but nothing beyond what was absolutely required. Tonight's performance had taught him that. He could help Sands walk across a room once, but only the one time. After that, he was no longer needed.

Whatever else Sands was, he most certainly was not a coward.

"How's Chiclet?"

"Tired," El said truthfully. "He fell asleep around ten-thirty."

Sands nodded. "Good."

"Tomorrow morning I will go to the hotel gift shop and get you some aspirin," El said. "But you need antibiotics. And you--"

"No doctor," Sands said curtly.

El shrugged and did not argue the point. It was not like he cared whether Sands lived or died, he told himself.

Sands shifted his weight a little, wincing with pain. "Damnit," he muttered.

El finished his glass of water. The hotel room was very nice. There were two large, comfortable beds and lots of closet space. The towels were actually soft. The TV had fifty cable channels and assorted video games, much to Chiclet's delight. Sands had enough cash on hand to pay for the room for a full week, and El had no qualms whatsoever about spending that money.

"So, El. Still have that guitar case full of guns?" Sands practically threw the question at him.

"Yes," he said.

"Good for you," Sands said. "Where is it? Back home at Casa Del Mariachi? Hidden under the floorboards, maybe?"

"It is in a safe place," El said.

Sands made a rude noise. "That's great." He sounded like he longed to give El a good eye-rolling.

El said nothing. He wished Chiclet would wake up. The boy didn't talk to him, but that was all right. The silence between Chiclet and himself was comfortable. Not like these silences, when it seemed like the entire world was hanging on what they said next.

"So!" Sands said brightly. "How the hell have you been, El?"

The too-loud cheer in his voice made El wince. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Well, I was trying to make conversation," Sands said slowly, like he had decided El had the mental capacity of a two-year old. "But I guess it's a little too much to expect from you. I know how much you hate words with more than one syllable."

"I see you haven't changed at all," El said sourly. He considered accidentally bumping Chiclet awake, then pressed himself deeper into the armchair.

Sands shook his head, smiling despite himself. "Look who's calling the kettle black."

"You are wrong," El said. "I have changed."

"Yeah? How?"

He was not sure what to say. He was not even sure he wanted to explain himself to Sands. It did not seem worth the effort involved. Sands would never understand, anyway. He could not, for instance, say that he was once again only a mariachi, and not a killer anymore, because Sands had never thought of him as just a mariachi. Nor could he say that he had made his peace with Carolina's death, because Sands had never known Carolina.

"I do not believe in God anymore," he said, surprising himself.

"But you did, once," Sands said.

"What?"

"You said 'anymore.' That implies you did believe once. When did you lose your faith?"

El closed his eyes. He did not want to answer the question, but he had brought it up. He had only himself to blame. "When Carolina. . .when my wife and daughter were killed, and I could not save them. I have not believed in God since that day." He looked at Sands. "For a time I went through the motions, but I found no comfort in them. The last time I was in a church was when I killed the men you sent to test me."

Sands nodded. "Back when you still had your faith, and I still had my eyes. These were the good ol' days, hey, El?"

Since he had shared something, he figured it was time for Sands to reciprocate. "How did you lose them?" he asked.

Sands dropped his false cheer. "Let me tell you something, El. You may think--"

"Never mind." El held up his hand, a useless gesture but one he could not help making. He rose to his feet and picked up the ice bucket. "I will be back."

Before Sands could protest or ask where he was going, he left the room.

The hallway was carpeted in a soft diamond pattern. El headed for the ice machine, which was situated in a little alcove six rooms down on his left. He didn't really need ice. He just needed to get out of that room for a while. He needed to escape the accusing glare of those dark sunglasses.

_Sucks to be blind, doesn't it?_ Sands had said in the car, just before they had gunned down the men from the cartel. At the time he had thought Sands was merely mocking his fear of the blindfold. He knew better now, of course.

Curious, he closed his eyes. Immediately the walls of the hotel corridor drew in closer, and the floor tilted under his feet. He could still hear the ice machine humming in its alcove, however. Feeling confident, he began walking toward it.

After a few steps, he began to grow nervous. The wall on his left seemed much closer now, but it didn't seem like he had been walking crookedly, so why should that be? He passed a room where the television was on, and the dim sound of canned laughter momentarily overruled the hum of the ice machine, disorienting him. How far away was it now?

Stubbornly he kept walking. He held the ice bucket with both hands in front of him, just in case a solid wall should materialize in the hall to impede his progress. It wasn't so hard to walk in the dark, he thought. He just had to remember to stay straight, and to listen for the ice machine.

His left shoulder brushed the wall. He jerked back with a reflexive, "Huh!" His left hand rose from the bucket and felt the air in front of him. When his fingers found the wall, he walked on, more assuredly now. He no longer needed to concentrate on the humming ice machine.

A few steps later, his fingers encountered nothing but air. And now that he was listening for it again, he could hear the ice machine. El opened his eyes, nodding in satisfaction. There. Not hard at all.

_Except you could see the hallway before you shut your eyes_, whispered a voice in the back of his mind. It sounded reproachful. Worse, it sounded a little like Carolina.

Yes, all right. So he had cheated. He would never know what it felt like to be Sands, to wander blind down unfamiliar hallways.

He had no regrets.

He set the bucket on top of the ice machine. The hallway was empty. He could see the elevators from here.

Nothing prevented him from leaving.

And yet, he couldn't.

El frowned, trying to make sense of his own behavior. He had played along with Sands and pretended to be part of the plan. And it had worked. He was standing here, alive and well. Now he was free to make his escape. All he had to do was walk a short distance down the hall, get on the elevator, and walk out the front doors of the hotel. He could be halfway across Mexico by sunrise, with only a single stop to make a phone call and alert the police to Sands' location.

Yesterday this idea would have given him great satisfaction. Now he simply stood beside the humming ice machine, unwilling to pursue it. He did not want to call the police. He did not want walk away. And he didn't know why.

Was it pity that stayed his hand? Curiosity? The desire for revenge? Or did he want to learn more about Sands' plan, so he could really nail the bastard when he sprang his trap?

He didn't know the answers. It bothered him that he could not say for sure why he was still standing here. He had always been quick to make a decision, and quicker to follow through on that decision. Now it seemed he could not do either of those things.

He sighed. He was not going to get his answers from the ice machine. He filled the bucket and turned around to go back to the room. He walked with his eyes open this time, and he did not once glance at the walls.

They were staying in Room 672. He knocked once, then slid the room key out of his pocket and let himself in, trying to be quiet so he would not wake the boy.

"It's only me," he said as the door closed behind him.

Sands gave him a mirthless grin. "I knew you'd be back," he said.

* * *

They stayed in the hotel for five days.

Spending so much time with Sands was not as agonizing as El had expected. He wasn't sure what to make of that. Part of him was relieved. The rest of him was simply suspicious.

After a while he realized it was the silences that made the days pass by so easily. Sands did not talk much. Neither did Chiclet. Watching the two of them, El understood why they were so close. When you didn't have to speak, it was easier to be with someone.

They watched a lot of TV. Chiclet went swimming in the hotel's fancy pool. Once or twice El joined him, but only in the afternoon, when most of the hotel's guests were out playing at being tourists, and there were few people present. He spent one evening in the lounge, drinking steadily until he could barely feel his feet. He wandered the corridors that night, unable to remember which one was his room, and feeling stupidly lost.

For his part, Sands was perfectly content to sit on his bed and do absolutely nothing. The blankness of his sunglasses was unnerving. El could never quite tell when he was asleep. In fact, after the first two days, it seemed like Sands never slept at all. El wondered if it was difficult to sleep without any eyes, but he was not curious enough to ask.

On the fourth day, Sands rose from his bed and walked straight out of the room. Not once did his step falter. When he reached the door, he fumbled for the handle exactly one time, then his hand closed over it. El watched him go, knowing that the next time Sands went out the door, and every time after that, he would not miss the handle.

He looked over at Chiclet, who was immersed in a video game involving lots of kicking and screaming. Chiclet was the key to Sands' behavior, of course. At some point when El had been in the shower or drinking at the bar or anywhere other than in this very room, Chiclet had told Sands how many steps there were to the door. Sands had probably walked the route, memorizing it until he could do it without guidance. All in an effort to show El that he was not helpless, that losing his eyes had only slowed him down, instead of stopping him.

No. El amended his line of thought. Sands did not do these things to prove his point to El. He did them to prove his point to the whole world. To the cartel that had ripped out his eyes in the first place. To the Americans who had abandoned him here. To everyone who had ever looked at him with disgust, or pity, or both.

And that, El decided, was a good a reason as any to explain why he was still here. Because what good was making a point if no one was around to get it?

On the fifth day Sands was gone for more than an hour. El was beginning to feel the first pangs of suspicion when the door opened and Sands limped inside. "I did some nosing around," he said. "Made a few phone calls." Seated in front of the TV, Chiclet perked up with interest. "The coast is clear. Tomorrow morning we'll check out."

"Where are we going?" Chiclet asked. He paused his latest game, something about stealing cars, and looked at Sands.

Sands leaned back against the door and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. "Well, that all depends on our new mariachi friend."

El scowled. "What does that mean?"

"It means, are you in, or are you out?" Sands rocked slightly on his heels. A small bandage on the side of his neck was the only visible sign that he was still recovering from his injuries. He had discarded the sling two days ago, complaining that it was annoying as hell and that he was going to use it to strangle the next person who insisted that he keep wearing it.

"You have been taking advantage of my hospitality," Sands said in the reasonable tone of voice that made El's shoulders tense. "This is one of the nicest hotels in all of Guadalajara, and you've been awfully free with the mini-bar and the room service. So either you are one hell of a leech, or you've decided to cast your lot with the crazy blind man. Which is it?"

"I am not a leech," El said reflexively, before biting his lip. Damnit. Five days of near-silence had made him forget how quickly Sands could provoke his temper.

"Then you're in," Sands said. "Good." He pushed himself off the door and walked over to the bed. He sat down, wincing a little. "Here's the plan."

Chiclet turned off the videogame. He had been sitting on the edge of the second bed, but now he scooted around so he could face Sands. El remained where he was, in the comfy armchair near the closet.

"The men we killed last week were pretty low-ranking. The kind of guys who can be relied on to make a pick-up, and not much more. Mr. Knife-Fight was one step above them." He smirked. "We're moving up the ladder, boys."

"You should start from the top," El said. "That is the best way."

Sands pointed a finger at him. "Give the mariachi five points. Of course, you would know all about that, wouldn't you? You don't get much more goal-oriented than killing your own brother."

With an effort, El held his tongue.

"I happen to know many things about the leader of this particular cartel," Sands said. "Where he lives. Where he likes to eat lunch. His favorite porno shop. All very useful information. I thought we could pay him a visit." He smiled, a short, cold smile. "But first, I thought we'd make a pitstop so El can retrieve his famous guitar case full of guns."

"No," El said.

"No?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I do not play with that guitar anymore," El said quietly.

"Not even for a special serenade?" Sands asked.

"Not ever again," El said.

Sands mulled this over, then nodded. "All right. Well, we've got plenty of guns anyway."

"Where does this man live?" El asked, using the question as a distraction. He did not for a minute believe that Sands had given in so easily, but he was grateful for the reprieve. He did not want to discuss that famous guitar case. He did not want to even think about it.

"Oh, in a little exclusive villa near Lake Chapala," Sands said with a lazy wave of his hand. "But we're not going there. That would be suicide."

"Then where are we going?" El asked. He was reminded of the days before the coup, when he had taken orders from Sands over a cell phone. He didn't particularly like being in that position again, but that was the price he paid for choosing to stay, he supposed.

"It just so happens that our man – who is named Juan Garcia, by the way – has a nephew in prison. This nephew was working for a rival gang, so he doesn't merit a Get Out of Jail Free card bought with drug money. But Uncle Johnny faithfully visits him every month on the fifteenth. Which also just so happens to be tomorrow."

"You want us to gun him down as he is driving to the prison?" El asked in disbelief.

"No." Sands gave him that cold smile again. "I want us to gun him down as he is walking out of the building."

* * *

_Stupid,_ El thought. _Stupid, stupid_.

He should never have agreed to this. He should have been miles away from here, asleep in his small house, while the noon sun beat down on the landscape. Instead, he was here.

"Here" was the blazing hot rooftop of the bank situated across the street from the prison. From here he could look down on the entire street, its traffic patterns, its potholes. He could see Chiclet seated in the passenger side of the Chevy, which was parked in front of the bank. The boy had a baseball cap pulled low over his head, and his nose was buried in a comic book. He looked like a normal teenager waiting for his parents to come out of the bank and drive him to baseball practice.

Sands was sitting at a bus stop half a block from the prison. Despite the heat, he was wearing black. His sunglasses were firmly in place. A newspaper lay on his lap.

Inside the prison, shadowy figures approached the glass door. El snuggled the rifle a little tighter against his shoulder.

"I take it you have no objections?" Sands had asked, as he had handed over the rifle. El, who had resented even the implication that he might be squeamish, had said stiffly that he had not a single objection. So now here he was, playing at being a sniper.

Already he knew he didn't like it. Gunning down a man in cold blood was not his style. It never had been. If he could, he intended to simply wound his target. Not that he had mentioned this to Sands, of course.

Sands would be the distraction. Juan Garcia would leave the prison. Sands would walk over to him and start talking. El would take down his target. Chiclet would slide into the driver's seat of the Chevy and start the car. Sands would get in the car. Chiclet would drive into the alley separating the bank from the laundromat next door, and El would jump down onto the roof of the car, and from there, onto the street. Chiclet would drive away.

In theory, it was a sound plan. To El, who had seen many saner plans fall to pieces, it was also lunacy.

* * *

Everything started out okay. The door to the prison opened, and three men emerged into the daylight. They were all dressed in somber suits. The one in the middle was older than the others; his hair and mustache were white.

Sands folded the newspaper and set it down on the bench serving as a bus stop. He strolled toward the prison, calling a greeting. He swept a slender black cane before him, the prop of blind men throughout the world. To Sands, it really was nothing but a prop, but he wielded it with ease, the same way he handled everything he touched.

All three men turned. The two bodyguards looked wary. Juan Garcia's eyes narrowed.

El looked through the rifle sight and reminded himself to keep breathing. One of Garcia's bodyguards was in his way, and he had to shift a little to his right to keep the sight clear.

Sands smiled as he drew nearer. He was still talking.

Garcia made a motion, and his bodyguards stepped forward. Immediately Sands raised his hands and drew back. At this distance, and with the sunglasses covering half his face, it was hard to tell, but El thought he looked scared.

And then everything happened at once.

Juan Garcia said something, an angry something El could not hear. The bodyguards seized Sands. Brakes squealed as a vehicle came to a stop. El lowered the rifle so he could see better. The bodyguards hustled Sands toward a white van parked directly in front of Chiclet's battered Chevy. The van's side door was flung open.

A dark blue sedan had followed the van. Juan Garcia got in the passenger side. The van door slid shut, and the bodyguards – and Sands – disappeared from sight.

The two vehicles took off, nearly running a red light in their haste to depart the scene. El watched them go, noting absently that neither one had a license plate.

Down below, Chiclet hurtled out of the Chevy. He glared up at El, his eyes wide with panic. "Get your ass down here!" he yelled.

Too shocked to be offended at being ordered around by a teenager, El just nodded and began to break down the rifle.


	8. The Charge of the Light Brigade

Chapter 8

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine. I'm making no profit off this story.

Author's Note Part 1: I live in an area of Florida that is forecast to be hit by Hurricane Wilma this weekend. I will try my best to keep updating this story in a timely manner, but if I suddenly drop off the face of the earth, you'll all know why.

Author's Note Part 2: Lately I've been feeling pretty insecure about my writing, and I wanted to say an enormous thank you to everyone who wrote to me and offered encouragement. You guys are the best. Thank you so much.

And now on with the story.

* * *

Flustered and unsure what to do next, El drove them to a shopping mall. When Chiclet realized where they were, he gave El a "you're-absolutely-crazy" look, but at least he got out of the car. 

For an hour they walked through the mall, stopping occasionally to wander through a store chosen at random. El glanced over his shoulder often, his hand hovering over the gun hidden under his jacket, but he saw no one following them. The mall's security guards seemed perfectly ignorant and lazy, not out on the lookout for two escaped criminals.

Eventually he decided they were safe enough. He led Chiclet to the food court and they sat at an empty table. It was Friday afternoon, and at this hour of the day the mall was as empty as it ever was. There were a few old people, a pair of slouching teenage boys who should have been in school, and some American tourists looking around and pointing at everything. Earlier El had seen a few people who looked as though they were taking a late lunch hour from the office to do some shopping, but they were gone by now. For the time being, the food court was a perfect sanctuary.

"What do you want to eat?" he asked.

Chiclet gave him an angry glare, clearly disgusted that El could even be thinking about food at a time like this. Undeterred, El left the table and walked over to the nearest vendor. He bought two slices of wilted pizza and two cups that had more ice than Coke in them, then returned to the uncomfortable plastic chair he had claimed for himself.

The pizza was rubbery and half-cold. El ate it anyway. "You should eat something," he said.

Chiclet gave him another disdainful glare, then resumed staring into space. El was not too familiar with teenage boys, but he remembered being one himself, and he knew he had never passed up an opportunity to eat. Obviously Chiclet was feeling rather upset right now. And while he had no sympathy for Sands, he did feel bad for the boy.

Besides, here was his chance to get Chiclet on his side.

He cleared his throat. "There was nothing you could have done."

The boy's jaw tightened mutinously, but he did not reply. He was intelligent; he had to know that if he had stepped out of the car and tried to stop the cartel from kidnapping Sands, he would only have made himself a target.

And perhaps, El thought, that was why Chiclet was so upset. The boy was feeling guilty that he had not done more to save his friend. He shook his head. He supposed he would never understand why Chiclet was so attached to Sands. In fact, he wasn't even sure he wanted to understand it. Some mysteries were best left unsolved.

"Will they come after you next?" he asked. Chiclet was only a boy, but from the cartel's point of view, he was guilty through association.

"No," Chiclet said dully. "I don't know."

"What will they do now?" El asked. He felt a little strange asking a thirteen-year old boy for guidance, but Chiclet was the only source of information he had now.

"I don't know," Chiclet said again. He stared at the floor.

"If they know about you," El said, "they will expect you to run. They may be looking for you. We should lie low for a while."

"Another cheap motel?" Chiclet asked softly. The barest suggestion of a sneer overlaid the words.

"Unless you know someplace else we could go," El said. He felt sorry for the boy. No doubt Chiclet had been on the run for years. He wondered if the boy had seen his family at all since leaving Culiacán.

"No." Chiclet sighed and stood up. His food was still untouched. "Let's go."

* * *

They used the last of Sands' cash to get a room in a hotel on the northern side of the city and buy a dinner that neither of them ate. Chiclet paced the worn carpet, his hands socked together in the small of his back. Watching him, El was filled with his own nervous energy, so when the boy suddenly turned on him, he was nearly startled out of his own skin. 

"We have to save him," Chiclet said.

El took a deep, calming breath. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, trying not to sink into the mattress. He suddenly felt like a parent again, dispensing wisdom in the face of youth. Only his daughter had never been this old, and she never would be. "That would be a mistake. They will expect it."

"I don't care." The boy's eyes burned intently. "We have to go save him. We can't leave him there. They'll kill him."

El could not deny that this seemed likely. In fact, the chances were very good that Sands was already dead and lying in a hastily-dug grave on Juan Garcia's estate.

"I know where Garcia lives," Chiclet said. He stopped pacing and stood before El. "We've been there before. I'm going. And you're coming with me."

"They will shoot you if you try," El said. He could not pretend false concern for Sands, but he did care what happened to the boy. Chiclet was an innocent bystander who had merely been at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was not his fault that he had gotten involved with Sands.

Now was not the time to talk about daring rescues. Now was the time for taking control of one's life. It was time for Chiclet to return to his family in Culiacán. Time for El to go back to his little house and his job at the cantina. The owners would rebuild after the explosion. There would be a need for music and singing. The city of Guadalajara had just celebrated the annual Mariachi Festival, and the people would be happy to welcome him back. He could slip back into his old life and pretend that this week had not happened, that it had all just been a very vivid, very strange dream.

"They don't care about me," Chiclet said. "I'm nothing. Sands is the one they want."

"It is too dangerous," El said. He looked at the boy, trying to imagine him reunited with the parents who probably worried about him every day. "We should leave this place."

"I am going," Chiclet said. He lifted his T-shirt and pulled the pistol he wore tucked in the waistband of his jeans. "And you're coming with me. You can be my hostage. I will trade you for Sands."

"You would really hand me over to the cartel?" El asked. The boy's words hurt him, although he would have died rather than admit it. He had hoped that after a week, Chiclet might see him as a real person and not just a threat, or as "the mariachi." Apparently he had been a fool to think that way.

"I would, if I had to choose between you and him," Chiclet said. His hand was steady on the gun.

Had the boy been any younger, El would have considered physically subduing him. But Chiclet was almost a man now, and he had to be treated as one. Only logic would work here. "I mean no offense," El said carefully, "but your plan is not a good one. I don't think any cartel would believe that you managed to make me your prisoner."

Quicker than thought, Chiclet whipped his hand to the right. Brilliant pain flared in El's cheek, then subsided to a muted glow. While he was still reeling from the blow, Chiclet darted forward and pulled El's pistol free. By the time he was able to look the boy full in the face, Chiclet had both guns aimed at his head.

"I mean no offense, señor," Chiclet said, "but you are wrong."

El touched his cheek, wincing with the hurt. He was shocked. Chiclet had pistol-whipped him!

"Why do you care what happens to him?" he asked, desperate to know. "What has he ever done for you, besides take you from your home and your family, and drag you all over Mexico?"

Chiclet looked at him over the guns. It was clear that the boy was torn between a desire to speak up and defend his hero, and the need to remain silent and not give El the satisfaction of an answer.

The chirrup of a cell phone saved him from having to make a decision.

El jumped in surprise. He had not known the boy even carried a cell phone. Evidently Sands wasn't the only one good at keeping secrets.

Chiclet thrust El's pistol into his belt, then reached into his back pocket and extricated the phone. He flipped it open and held it up to his ear without even glancing at the caller ID. "Sí."

The person on the other end spoke. Chiclet nodded. "Sí." He glanced up at El, then nodded in response to a question he had been asked. "I know." His knuckles were white where he clutched the phone. "No." He shook his head once, then again, more emphatically. "No."

El stood up. "What do they want?"

Chiclet waved him off. He bent his head, focused on the phone and the person on the other end. "Sands." A world of relief throbbed in that one word. "Are you all right?"

So then. Not dead. El felt a strange mixture of relief and annoyance. Part of him had hoped Sands had been killed already. It would have been easier to dissuade Chiclet that way. Everyone could have gotten on with their lives that much sooner.

Chiclet shook his head harder now. "No," he said loudly. "Wait! Don't!"

The gunshot was perfectly audible. El heard it and felt his blood run cold.

"No!" Chiclet shouted. "No!" Then, in response to something spoken in his ear, he calmed down. "I won't," he said softly. He was staring into space again, his eyes very wide. "Tomorrow morning," he said. "I know."

He ended the call and flipped the phone closed. He did not look up at El.

"What happens tomorrow morning?" El said.

"They will kill him, if I do not bring them to you."

"Did they shoot him?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?" El asked. He was fairly certain honesty was not high on the list of a drug lord's character traits.

"I heard it!" Chiclet glared at him. "They let him talk to me for a little while, then they took the phone away and they shot him. I heard. . ." He swallowed hard. "He was hurt."

El conceded the point. After spending three years with someone like Sands, the boy surely knew what the aftermath of a gunshot wound sounded like. And Sands was just the kind of person to make sure Chiclet knew he was in pain, just to give the boy further guilt and motivation to save him. "You expect them to just let Sands go, if you turn me over to them?"

"That's what they said." The boy sounded sulky.

"But you don't believe them," El said.

"You were the one they wanted!" Chiclet snapped. He was quivering all over with suppressed emotion; his face was very pale. "It was always only you. Sands can make another deal with them. They'll take him back. Things will be like they were before."

"As long as they get me," El said. He was appalled by the boy's lack of sympathy for his plight.

"Once the trade is made, you can do whatever," Chiclet said. "Kill them all if that's what you want. I don't care." The tremor in his voice belied the harshness of his words, however.

"Kill them all," El repeated. How many times had he done just that? How many bars emptied of the living in his quest to find Bucho? How many churches filled with dead men?

Just how many lives could be laid at his feet?

Chiclet turned to him, not commanding now, but appealing. "Please. You have to do this."

Just one week ago he had fled the bomb at the cantina. He owed his life to Sands. He could not forget that. Nor could he deny that a part of him craved the violence Chiclet so freely offered. He felt nothing but hatred for the drug cartels of this country. If he could destroy one of them, he would gladly do so, and sleep easily that night.

"How many?" he asked.

"I don't know," Chiclet said. "Probably all of them. They'll all want to see El Mariachi."

"And Sands? Will he fight?"

"Of course," Chiclet said. "Just get a gun in his hands."

El nodded thoughtfully. Even blind, Sands was an excellent shot. He had learned that during the gunfight on the dusty roadside, although of course he had not known the truth of what he was seeing until the next morning. Given half a chance, and assuming he was not injured too badly, Sands would do just fine in the coming battle. With a rifle, he would probably do even better than just fine.

With a sigh, El realized that it was already a done deal. Although he had not said a word out loud, he had already agreed to Chiclet's proposal. He was mentally gearing up for battle, taking stock of his arms and his allies, figuring out the best way to approach things.

"All right," he said wearily. "Let's do this."

* * *

They left the hotel just after dawn. September was coming to a close, and the nights were growing cooler; El was glad for his jacket. He would have preferred another day to get ready, but time was working against them. Fortunately they had plenty of ammo, as the scuffle with the cartel last week had been a quick one, rather than a drawn-out fight necessitating several reloads. 

Chiclet drove the Chevy, his face pinched with tension. El sat beside him, tapping his fingers on the doorframe. He wished he had a guitar with him. Plucking out individual notes had always helped ease his nerves, and right now he would have welcomed the comfort of music.

He was unarmed, for of course Garcia's men would frisk him before letting him anywhere near their boss. Chiclet, however, was heavily armed beneath a black jacket. The boy wore sunglasses similar to Sands', causing El to wonder if the imitation was intentional or not.

Garcia's villa was set off from the road and enclosed by black iron gates, just like any self-respecting drug lord's home should be. A guard sat inside a gatehouse, ready to turn away any lost and innocent drivers just looking for a place to turn around. As Chiclet brought the car to a halt outside the gates, the guard picked up a phone and spoke into it, his heavy brows drawn together into a frown.

El remained still. He supposed the guard was thrown off by the fact that he was just sitting there in the passenger seat like a guest coming to visit, not a hostage. Then again, last week he had appeared to be the ideal prisoner, cuffed and blindfolded, and look how that had turned out.

"Go on through," the guard said. He put down the phone and pressed a button that started the gates opening. "They will meet you."

Chiclet nodded, then drove through the gates. He did not ask if El was ready, or give any final orders.

The lane curved gently, weaving through the tall trees lining the road. Once or twice El thought he caught a glimpse of white stone, but then the greenery obscured the view again, so he could not be sure.

Chiclet drove around another curve, and then coasted to a stop. Three men armed with rifles barred the way.

"Here we go," El murmured. He got out of the car.

The men with rifles acted as an escort. One on either side of El and Chiclet, and one in back. They did not speak. They walked around another curve, and then the one in back barked a command. "Stop now."

El did as he was told. He raised his hands in the air and let them frisk him. The guard's hands moved impersonally over his body. "He's clean."

Chiclet held out his pistol. "Here," he said. "He's yours now."

The guard grunted in surprise, but took the gun. "Have any trouble with him?" he asked, one side of his mouth quirking with amusement.

"Not really," Chiclet said.

The began walking again. El cursed the loss of the pistol, but he recognized the cleverness of the tactic. By voluntarily surrendering his weapon, Chiclet had escaped further notice. The guards had dismissed him from their attention; all their focus now was on the great El Mariachi.

The lane bent around a final curve, and then they were there. The villa was light and lovely to look at. The gardens were gorgeous. El pursed his lips. It was an abomination to him that such beauty should exist because of drug money.

"Señor Garcia is waiting for you," said the guards behind him.

El nodded. This place made Cesar's villa look like a hovel. Everything was superior to his brother's home. Even the men standing at attention looked more like soldiers than the bumbling fools who had worked for Bucho.

Their guards led them to a cobblestoned walkway that bent around the side of the house. There would be a larger garden back there, El knew. He kept his back straight as he walked, ignoring the many eyes boring holes into him.

Halfway around the villa, he became aware of the sound of voices. Two of them. One was quiet and civilized. It belonged to Juan Garcia. The other voice was ragged and pleading. And it belonged to Sands.

El glanced to his left. Chiclet had heard, too. The boy had curled his hands into fists, and he was very pale.

"Don't. Please." They were closer to the garden now. El heard the pain in Sands' voice and felt a cold dagger of ice slide into his chest. He would not have thought he would be so affected to hear his enemy in pain, but he could not deny what he was feeling. The simple truth was that he could hardly wait to send a bullet flying into Garcia's forehead.

Chiclet began to walk faster. The guard on his left snapped at him to slow down, but the boy did not seem to hear.

Sands cried out loudly, the sound of a man in terrible pain.

El quickened his step, eager to get started with the business of killing. Adrenaline was flooding his senses, rendering everything sharp and clear. He saw every detail of the house on his left, and the guard at his right hand. He even saw the place where he would strike at the man, in just another few seconds…

At the rear corner of the house, the cobblestones fanned out to form a rectangular patio. Beyond the patio stretched an open expanse of garden. El saw an armed man standing beside a stone fountain, and then he stepped completely around the corner, and he saw everything.

Juan Garcia was sitting at a round patio table. The yellow and white striped umbrella that normally shaded the table was furled and lying lengthwise on the ground alongside his wrought-iron chair. A half-finished glass of iced tea was in his hand, as though he had just taken a drink. Six of his bodyguards were scattered throughout the garden, every one of them standing at attention and seemingly oblivious to the natural beauty surrounding them.

Seated across from Garcia was Sands. He was leaning back in his chair, smoking. A heavy pistol with a silencer screwed onto the end rested on the table beside his ashtray. Behind his sunglasses, he was smirking. There was not a scratch on him.

He said, "Nice to see you could finally join us, El."


	9. Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

Chapter 9  
Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

Disclaimer: The characters and situations in this story are the property of Robert Rodriguez and Troublemaker Studios. I'm only borrowing them. I'll put them back when I'm done. I promise.

Author's Note part 1: I may be evacuating for Hurricane Wilma later today or tomorrow. Either way, if I stay or go, I expect to lose my power when the storm goes through, so I will be out of touch for a while. Responses to reviews may be delayed, but as always I promise I will get back to you – it just might take me a while, depending on how things go with the hurricane.

Author's Note part 2: Lots of bad language in this chapter. And violence. And unhappy things. Please, please consider yourselves warned.

* * *

"Nice to see you could finally join us, El." 

It was the explosion in the cantina all over again. He felt like he was watching that fireball rising into the night for the second time, too stunned to react. He could not move, or speak. He could only stare. The tiny part of his brain that still seemed capable of coherent thought whispered snidely that this was twice now that Sands had done this to him, but he barely noticed.

"So what do you think of my performance?" Sands asked. "All that screaming? It was pretty good, wouldn't you say? But would you call it Oscar-worthy?"

When had the lie begun? The moment Sands had set foot in that van? When the gunshot had sounded, so close to the phone even El could hear it?

No one else moved. The men with the guns might have been statutes carved from flesh-colored stone. Juan Garcia gazed at El with mild interest, nothing more.

Sands set his cigarette down in an ashtray, feeling for it first with his free hand. "I only wish I could see the look on your face right now. Chiclet?"

El's head turned to the left, despite the lack of any conscious command to do so. He felt the heat of Chiclet's dispassionate gaze. The boy was not nervous anymore. His shoulders were lower. The lines of tension had been erased from around his eyes. Chiclet, El realized in shock, had come home.

"Betrayed," Chiclet said. "He looks betrayed."

Sands smiled a slow, predatory smile. "Good."

El opened his mouth, wanting to say something, knowing he _should_ say something. But his brain was still not in control. No words came.

It had all been a lie. A set-up. A trap. And he had fallen for it.

None of it had been true. Nor had it even been necessary. Sands could have handed him over to the cartel on the night it had all started. There had been no reason to gun down five of his own allies. No reason to make El think they were in this together.

No reason, except to feed Sands' twisted need for manipulation. Even without a failed coup to orchestrate, he still had to be pulling the strings, making everyone around him dance to his own strange rhythm. It was not enough to take down El Mariachi. First he had to gain El's reluctant cooperation. And why not? Betrayal only worked if the person being betrayed had no clue it was coming.

Strangely, what hurt the most was the knowledge that Chiclet had been in on the plan the entire time. He could understand Sands' actions, but he had never done anything to Chiclet. It made no sense that the boy was willing to turn him in and play a role in this charade without even blinking. Chiclet too was deserving of an award for his performance; his anxiety and fear for Sands had been entirely convincing.

Everything was a lie. Had he not known for certain that it was physically impossible, he would have been willing to believe that Sands was not really blind, but only pretending, just to add one more layer of confusion to the mix.

"I have to say, I'm a little disappointed in you. You made it too easy. No challenge." Sands smirked, a man trying to hold in his delighted laughter.

El finally managed to make his brain function. "You assume you have won," he said. It wasn't much, but it was a start. The longer he could delay the inevitable, the greater his chances of getting out of this alive.

"I never assume anything," Sands said, and some of his good cheer disappeared. "Not since the woman I thought I knew turned on me and made me lose a perfectly good pair of eyeballs."

El could not hide his surprise. A woman had blinded Sands? He had figured it was Barillo's cartel, or maybe Cucuy, but he had not known for sure. The mystery surrounding Sands would never be solved, he realized. At least, not by him.

His mind raced frantically, searching for a way out. He tried to remember how he and Carolina had escaped the slaughter at Cesar's villa, when the odds had been similarly stacked against him, but the only thing he could remember was the way his brother had embraced him.

Juan Garcia sipped his iced tea, then set the glass down. He studied El, his dark eyes unreadable. "So this is the famous El Mariachi." He did not sound impressed.

"He's not much to look at," Sands said, sounding almost apologetic. "The first time I met him, I could barely keep from laughing out loud. He was so _sulky_. Like a teenage boy full of angst."

El ground his teeth together, fighting to keep his temper. He could not stop them from killing him, but he could at least die with some dignity.

Garcia sniffed. "Hmm."

"El." Sands turned his name into a hearty greeting. "I'm surprised at you! All this time, and you still don't recognize your host? I thought you considered yourself a patriot. For you to not recognize one of Mexico's premier – albeit retired – generals, is really just downright insulting. What do you have to say for yourself?"

A retired general. Running a cartel. It was almost laughable. No wonder his country was in such a sorry state, if this was the way things were. El gazed at Juan Garcia, trying to understand what could make a former patriot turn against his own countrymen like this.

"I am awfully sorry about the whole cartel thing," Sands said. "But I figured it was the best way to get your attention."

Slowly El looked over at Sands. The former CIA officer was still lounging at ease in his chair. He was still smirking. But he was telling the truth, for perhaps the first time since they had met that night in the cantina.

"General Garcia here isn't cartel." Sands waved a hand, indicating the garden and the bodyguards strategically placed throughout the flowers. "None of these fine men are. Nor were the ones we killed, including Ramón the knife fighter. They were all soldiers working with the good General."

Dull roaring filled the lower ranges of El's hearing. Angry haze seeped into the corners of his vision. He became aware that his fists were clenched with rage.

"I told you, back in the hotel," Sands said. "The new El Presidente wants all connections to the failed coup erased. And that means you. So he put his head together with the famous General Garcia and they put their soldier boys in action. Of course, it was my idea to let you think they were cartel, and I don't mind saying, it took a lot of convincing to get them to agree to it."

"Erased," El said. It sounded like an epithet.

Sands gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Don't worry. I'm on the list, too. I just get to stick around until the bitter end, because I'm so useful."

It was no comfort knowing that Sands was going to die, too. "Then I suppose I will see you in hell," he growled.

"One can only hope," Sands sighed, and El realized with a jolt that Sands had taken his words literally.

"Well." Sands took one last drag of his cigarette, then ground it out in the ashtray. "How many men are on him? Did you do what I said?"

"Three," Garcia said shortly. His upper lip lifted in a sneer, although his voice remained impassive. Apparently he did not like taking orders from Sands.

"Good." Sands picked up the gun that had been lying innocently next to the ashtray all this time. He turned it in his hand a few times as though he had never held it before, then he rose to his feet. "Step away from him. Chiclet, you come here."

Two of the bodyguards looked to Garcia, who nodded imperceptibly. They moved back and to either side. Now El stood alone. Three feet separated him from the nearest man. Not a great distance, but enough. If he lunged for the guard's gun, he would be dead before he even hit the ground.

Chiclet walked over to stand at Sands' right hand. He was relaxed now, in a way El had not seen in him before. Chiclet, he realized with a sinking heart, belonged here. No wonder they hadn't frisked the boy.

The last of his hope died. He had thought maybe Chiclet might have had a change of heart about the plan, that he would speak out and try to save the great El Mariachi.

He knew now that wasn't going to happen.

"I did it," Chiclet said proudly. He looked at Garcia with distaste, an expression he could only have learned from Sands. No other teenage boy would glare so boldly at the man who had once commanded Mexico's army. "You said I couldn't."

Sands clapped Chiclet on the shoulder, although he missed on his first try and merely smacked the boy's upper arm. "I knew you could."

Chiclet stood a little straighter, his eyes glowing with pride. El wondered if he ever thought about his family back in Culiacán, about the father he had given up in order to accept his new, American father.

"Marco, to me," said Juan Garcia. The man who had been standing behind El stepped away and took up a stance behind Garcia's chair. He stood there easily, obviously reclaiming his usual post. And now that he thought about it, El thought he had seen Marco yesterday at the bank, through the rifle sight.

"Well, _El_, it's been fun," Sands said. "But all good things must come to an end, right?" He lifted his gun and took careful aim.

El stood very still. He had made the mistake of responding to Sands' taunts, and that meant Sands knew exactly where he was standing. There was no way Sands would miss. If he took even a single step, Sands would hear it and know, just like he had heard the three guards moving away, knowing that they had obeyed his command without needing to ask Chiclet for visual confirmation of the fact.

Sands made as if to squeeze the trigger, then stopped. "You know what your problem is, El? You've always been too short-sighted." His voice was light. "It's a major failing, especially in a mariachi. You really need to start seeing the big picture."

El frowned. Sands had said that to him once before, in the car on that first night, just before taking out the men he had actually been in league with.

He thought, _Is it possible?_

And then things started to happen.

* * *

The gun moved. Not much. Just enough. 

Sands fired twice. The guard on El's right reeled backward, already dead.

The gun moved again as Sands swept his arm to his right. As it flowed across El's field of vision, he stared into the cold eye of the muzzle, and his heart stopped.

Sands fired two more shots. The guard on El's left collapsed.

Calmly, Sands finished turning to his right. He emptied his clip into Juan Garcia's chest. A few of his shots went wild, and one caught Marco high in the chest, whether intentionally or not, El could not say.

Marco staggered backward and managed to get off a single shot before he went down.

At such close range, it should have been impossible for him to miss. But he did. It was not Sands who fell, but Chiclet.

It all took about five seconds.

* * *

El was rooted to the spot at first. His shocked brain could not absorb anything more. But when Chiclet hit the ground, the paralysis that had locked his body fell away, and he was finally free to move. 

Nor was he the only one.

Sands dropped to the ground, knocking over the patio table as he went. He grabbed the round edge and spun the table about, using it for cover.

With not a moment to spare. The six men who had been standing like stone statues in the garden had suddenly come to life. And they were _pissed_.

El flung himself to the ground. He slithered over the cobblestones, cutting his elbows on the shards of glass that were all that remained of Juan Garcia's iced tea. "I need a weapon!" he panted.

Sands kicked the yellow and white striped umbrella in his direction. "Help yourself!" He fired wildly over the protection of the table. The tabletop was made of bulletproof glass, El saw with detachment. He hadn't even known such things existed.

He fumbled to open the umbrella. Inside it were an assortment of guns and rifles. He did not doubt that all of them were fully loaded. He wondered how Sands had managed to get the guns out there without anyone knowing, then decided it did not matter. He seized the first one he laid his hands on, and came up shooting.

It seemed to last forever, the way all gunfights did. And at the same time, it happened so fast he could never really recall it later.

He did remember dragging Chiclet behind the table, ignoring the boy's moans of protest. He remembered spinning around on one knee and picking off the men who came running around the corner of the house. He remembered the sound of glass splintering under a relentless onslaught of bullets, and realizing that even bulletproof glass had its breaking point.

He thought, _He could have killed me. But he didn't. Why?_

He pulled the trigger. Over and over. He burned his fingers on hot metal. He killed men, and he could not even stop to watch them fall, because always there was another man who needed killing.

And when it was all over, when the grounds of the villa had become a charnel house and only he and Sands still moved, he could not stop shaking. He could not uncurl his hands from their guns. He could not look away from the fallen bodies or stop smelling the blood and cordite.

"Is it over? Did we win?" Sands was crouched down, broken glass in his hair. He was smiling.

El lifted the gun in his right hand and pointed it at Sands. "Yes," he said. He pulled the trigger.

Click of an empty chamber.

Sands laughed. "Tough luck, El."

_He could have killed me_, El thought again. It would have been so easy. Sands had shot the first guard. And for just a fraction of a second, while the gun passed over the space where El stood, he had held back. Then a heartbeat later, he had shot the second guard. For unfathomable reasons, Sands had spared him.

He felt no similar charity. He tossed the gun aside and drew another. He checked the clip, then rammed it into his belt. "We are going."

Sands stood up. He hissed under his breath, and El saw without surprise that a bullet had found him. His left sleeve was soaked with blood. "Lead on."

El struck him. Sands went sprawling on the cobblestones, his sunglasses landing in his lap. El winced away from the sight of the hollows where his eyes had been, but refused to let pity melt away any of his anger.

"Don't you even care about Chiclet?"

Sands fumbled to put his sunglasses back on. He raised his head. "Chiclet?" He did not direct the question to El, but to the thin air, expecting a reply.

It was easier to stay angry, he thought. Easier than giving in to other, more treacherous emotions. "He was shot," he said bluntly. He reached down and yanked Sands to his feet. "Now help me get him out of here."

* * *

He drove away from the villa, not in the battered Chevy, but a brand-new SUV that someone had been stupid enough to leave the keys inside. 

Sands sat in the backseat, Chiclet lying across his legs. The boy was too pale, and he was unconscious. Unfamiliar with this area, El sped through the streets, wondering if it would be quicker to return to Guadalajara or try to find a hospital in one of the towns along the lakeshore.

They did not speak. El concentrated grimly on driving. The adrenaline of the fight was wearing off, and he could feel the various aches and pains of his body now. His elbows hurt where he had cut them on the broken glass, and he felt bruised all over. But he had not been shot, and that was good. He was sick of being shot.

At a likely intersection, he turned left, forcing the SUV to take the turn faster than it wanted. For a scary moment he felt the right-hand wheels want to lift from the road, and Sands cursed angrily. "Think you could get us to the hospital in one piece, fucker?"

"Be quiet," El snarled. He did not dare speak in anything louder than that controlled tone. If he did, he would start shouting. And then he would start shooting.

They were going west now, toward Ajijic. There would be a hospital there, El prayed. A good hospital.

"How did you do it?" he asked. "How did you become involved with such men?"

"I told you," Sands said. "After the coup, I decided I wasn't going to run. So I offered my services to the people running the show."

"Not cartel," El said. More and more of the picture was becoming clear now, and his anger was growing with every revelation. "You have been working for the government all this time."

"Bingo," Sands said. El glanced in the rearview mirror and saw him grin.

"The president you wanted to kill has been paying you to work for him." He gripped the steering wheel so hard his hands hurt.

"Funny how things work out sometimes," Sands drawled. "Of course, he just thought I was some unlucky CIA spook who'd gotten on the wrong side of the Barillo cartel. He felt sorry for me. Plus I could give him all kinds of useful information, like the location of certain drug lords."

"Of course," El said through gritted teeth.

"Then the elections came and your presidente went out, and mine came in. And then instead of using my contacts to find drug lords, suddenly I was asked to find everyone involved with the coup. And that's when it all began," Sands said. "Last summer." His voice trailed off, as if he no longer found his own story very interesting.

The waters of Lake Chapala flashed by on the left. El spared them not a glance. He pressed harder on the accelerator, sending the needle on the speedometer soaring upward.

From the moment Sands had spoken to him in the cantina, he had been played. He had fallen for every trick, believed every lie. His anger seemed to have no limit. He ached to lash out, to find a way to turn the tables and make Sands do his bidding. He wanted to be the one in control, for a change.

"Stop," Sands said.

El glared at him through the rearview mirror, but did not speak.

"Stop," Sands repeated, louder this time.

El looked up, really seeing him this time, and all the strength left his limbs.

He let the car coast to a stop on the side of the road and turned off the engine. There was no traffic. Nothing disturbed the silence.

"No." He flung open the door and scrambled out of the car, fighting briefly with his seat belt before subduing it. He marched back to the passenger door and threw it open. "No."

Sands remained seated. He bared his teeth. "Don't even think it, fuckmook."

El reached in and took Chiclet's body. He swept the boy up into his arms and whirled away from the car. He staggered over the grass with his burden, heading for the lake.

"Get back here!" Sands got out of the car and came after him, his right hand held in front of him. On unfamiliar ground, with no one to guide him and no prior knowledge of where he was going, most of his grace deserted him, and he truly looked like a blind man. "El!"

On a quiet patch of grass, El knelt. He set Chiclet's body down. Except for the blood staining his shirt, the boy looked like he was only sleeping. His lashes made pale shadows on his cheeks. His hair was askew on his brow, needing only a careless hand to push it back. The sunglasses he had worn in imitation of his hero were gone, left back at the villa.

Sands stumbled across the grass. "El!" He would miss his quarry by several feet, if he kept on his current course.

"He is dead," El said coldly. "And you killed him."

Sands spun around, locating him through the sound of his voice. "What?"

"You killed him!" El shouted. "He was only there because of you. He should never have been there!"

"Fuck you!" Sands shouted. Forgetting he wore two guns, he launched himself at El. "Fuck you!"

El punched him in the face. He had never felt so angry in all his life.

Sands staggered and nearly went down, then recovered. In a silence more scary than any curse would have been, he attacked.

El was ready for him. He had not been in a fight like this for years; his scuffles during his stint as a bouncer were as nothing compared to this. This was not just a fistfight. This was brutal combat, and nothing would satisfy him except total victory. He fought with his fists and his feet, and when he could no longer use those, he flailed with every ounce of his strength, crashing his forehead onto Sands', sending them both reeling.

He fell back on his butt in the grass. Blood ran from his nose and mouth. One eye was already swelling shut. His hand felt like he had smashed it against a brick wall. He could barely bend his fingers.

Sands looked little better. He had lost his sunglasses again. He was bleeding from a cut on his lip and another over his forehead. Thin runners of crimson snaked down his face, as though he had only today lost his eyes. His chest heaved as he fought for air, and for control. "Fuck you," he muttered.

El said nothing.

"Fuck you," Sands said again. "Fuck you!" He threw his head back and screamed it into the morning sky. "Fuck you!"

El closed his eyes.

Sands began to laugh. It was the laugh of a madman. "You're right, El. For once, you got it right."

He did not want to answer, but he could not stay silent in the face of that laughter. "What am I right about?"

"This is my fault." Abruptly Sands stopped laughing.

"He couldn't stay in Culiacán. He had helped me on the Day of the Dead, and people had seen him do it. He was marked. If he had stayed, the cartel would have come after him and his family. To save them, he left when I did."

El opened his eyes. Sands had turned away so he faced the lake. His voice was utterly emotionless. "So yes, I killed Chiclet."

Fury stampeded through El's veins. The boy's death was horrible enough, but now Sands sat there and calmly accepted the blame. It was all too much.

He saw now what he had to do. And he was glad to do it. It would all be worth it in the end, just to see the look on Sands' face.

"You deserve to die," he said coldly. He stood up, groaning as every pain in his body shouted in outrage. "But first I want you to suffer."

He threw everything he had into the punch. Sands collapsed into the grass, unconscious.

El bent down and carefully lifted Chiclet into his arms. The boy's head lolled back and his hands dangled loosely. Taking care not to disturb him any more than was necessary, El walked back to the car.

It was an eight-hour drive to Culiacán. If he hurried, he could be there by sunset.


	10. Things Fall Apart

Chapter 10

Things Fall Apart

Disclaimer: Sands does not belong to me. I'm sure he's grateful.

Author's Note part 1: Well, I survived Hurricane Wilma with only minimal damage, so I consider myself lucky. Thanks to everyone who wrote to offer support. Thank-yous also to everyone who has written to review this story. And special thanks to my wonderful beta reader Melody for keeping me sane.

Author's Note part 2: The title of this chapter is of course one half of a quote from W. B. Yeats. "Things fall apart; the center cannot hold." From his poem, "The Second Coming."

Unpleasant things lie ahead, and the last of the secrets are revealed. Readers, ye be warned.

* * *

Sands lay in the space between sleeping and waking. He was perfectly comfortable.

He did his best thinking when he was in this particular place. He had been lying in bed one night, for example, when he had suddenly realized that he was sick and tired of working for the Mexican government.

His association with the government had all started out innocently enough. Nicholas had not been his only contact within the former president's Cabinet. A single phone call had set things in motion, and within a month of leaving Culiacán, he had been safely ensconced within the sheltering arms of bureaucracy.

He had come to his new job with a lot to offer. Insider knowledge. Contacts. Informants. The dirt on other spies, both American and Mexican. Enough lowdown to wipe the remains of the Barillo cartel off the map. The old president had been duly grateful, never knowing that his new American employee had once tried hard to have him killed.

For his part, Sands had gotten what he wanted most – the trust of men in power, and knowledge. More dirt than he had ever imagined. Secrets and lies and cover-ups aplenty, enough to bring down the entire government should the truth come out. It was the same all over the world, of course, but here he was privy to more information than he could ever have gathered working for the CIA. He had stockpiled his secrets carefully, figuring sooner or later his ass would be on the line for something and he could cash them in.

After the elections, however, things had turned sour. The new president was determined that his country would not be embarrassed by ghosts of the failed coup. The fact that it had happened was public knowledge and nothing could change that, but the sordid details could be kept from coming to light.

And so last summer, the order had come down. Erase everyone associated with the coup. Erase the coup itself. It never happened.

In the beginning Sands had taken to his new job with gusto. He killed his government contact first, the one who had put in him touch with Nicholas, ironically. He made it look like an accident. After that it was time to purge the military, and all those who had supported Marquez in his crusade to take the reins of power. Juan Garcia had helped there, and when the purges were done, the general had retired to his lovely villa on the shores of Lake Chapala.

On down the list. Everyone who had helped him set things up, who had caught one of the shapes he had thrown. And as the list shrank, his own name came ever closer to the top.

Two months ago he had returned to Culiacán. Chiclet had refused to go with him, and so he had been forced to rely on one of Garcia's men as his eyes. The whole thing had pissed him off and left him feeling generally out of sorts. So when he had finally found his target, instead of pulling the trigger, he had offered the man a cigarette.

Ramirez had been instantly suspicious. Sands had just shrugged and inhaled a lungful of smoke. "They want me to kill you, Jorge old buddy."

Predictably, Ramirez had been furious.

Sands had stood still, in what he supposed was Ramirez's bedroom. His thoughts had come fast, one on top of each other, burying themselves in their eagerness to get his attention.

He could not kill Jorge. Not after what Jorge had done for him. He would be a rotting corpse in an unmarked grave were it not for Jorge. He owed the ex-FBI agent a life.

Besides, he was tired of this. Killing was only fun when he decided who died and who lived. Assassination was not really his thing.

So he had put away his gun. "You should think about running," he had said. "Maybe go back to Texas. Stay there for a while. Visit old friends, or something." And he had let himself out the way he had come in, through the back window.

That had been the start of it. After that day, he could barely hold back his disgust at his current employers. Governments were the same the world over. This government's official language was Spanish and their flag was different colors, but nothing had really changed. It was the CIA all over again. Go here, do this, spy on that group, kill him, watch her. Boring, boring, boring.

He was done working for the bad guys. It was time to work for the good guys. Time to restore the balance.

He told Chiclet his plan. Next on the list – and last, except for his own name – was the great El Mariachi. This was where it would all go down.

It had all been simple enough. Find El Mariachi. Find someone else to plant the bomb in the cantina. Tell the military it was only a fake bomb threat and not real. Make them think he would use the bomb threat to empty the cantina and then make his move on El. Try hard not to laugh as he said all of the above.

Chiclet had never been comfortable with the whole bomb idea. He had made Sands promise that he would be allowed to go inside the cantina and warn everyone. Since Sands didn't give a shit about anyone else in the cantina one way or the other, he had agreed. As long as he had El Mariachi in his sights, everyone else could go fly a kite.

The big night had come. The house lights had gone up, and the show had gone off without a hitch. Just as he had planned. He had whisked El away from the cantina and it had gone so smoothly that in hindsight, he should have known that sooner or later something would come along and fuck up his plans. Something always did.

But he hadn't known that then, of course. He had been focused on the task at hand. The drop-off, when he was supposed to turn El over to the government troops responsible for his execution. Manuel and his men had been on loan from retired General Garcia's troops. They had come to the drop-off point fully expecting Sands to do his part, just like everyone had planned.

Only, the plan had changed. Killing them had been on the agenda that night. He had just forgotten to tell them that.

Oops.

So, off they had gone to the cheap motel in Guadalajara. Where Ramón had been waiting, out of contact with everyone, completely oblivious to the death of his fellow soldiers. His only instruction had been to attack Sands, and to make it look real. Stupid asshole had died without even knowing he had been used.

Then it was off to the prison, and the meet with Garcia he had arranged on his cell phone during one of the times El had been dicking around in the swimming pool with Chiclet. Really, it had been too easy. Sure, Garcia and the president's men had not been very happy with him over the murder of their buddies, and they had been really pissed that the bomb in the cantina turned out to be real, but he had convinced them that it had been necessary. A man like El Mariachi could only be taken if he let himself be taken, he had said.

They had believed him. Or else they hadn't, but they had pretended to. Either way, the end result had been the same. He supposed Garcia had planned to kill him right alongside El. If he had been in Garcia's shoes, certainly he would have done so. Garcia had a little more honor, however, so maybe he would have been given an extra day, or something. One final meal for the condemned, that sort of thing. He'd never know now.

Now it was all over. Every string pulled. Every shape thrown.

And everything was fucked seven ways from Sunday.

He knew Chiclet was dead, oh yes. Even in this blissful, wacked-out state of semi-consciousness, he knew the boy was dead. He knew it, and he accepted the blame. El Mariachi was not a very smart man, but about this one thing, El had been dead on the money. Chiclet's death really was his fault.

He hadn't told Chiclet the new plan. That was the reason why it was his fault. He had told Chiclet about Ramón and the knife fight, but the boy had still been scared shitless, thinking he was really in danger. Chiclet had nearly blown it that morning, urging El to rush in and save the day, when El had only been meant to watch from afar and get more and more curious about what was going on. After that episode, he couldn't take the chance that Chiclet would screw things up again.

So he had said nothing about the new plan. Chiclet had thought that once they got El Mariachi into Garcia's clutches, it would all be over. Chiclet had expected a few shots to ring out, and then lunch to be served.

He had told himself that he was staying silent in order to protect Chiclet. El Mariachi might not be smart, but he was crafty. El would have seen right through Chiclet, had the boy known what would really happen at Garcia's villa. For the plan to work, Chiclet had to be kept in the dark. Blind, if you pardoned the bad analogy.

And that was where it had all fallen apart. Instead of ducking and taking cover when the bullets started flying, Chiclet had just stood there with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide in shock, unable to believe what was happening. Or so Sands imagined. Really, it didn't matter what he had looked like. Surprised or not, ready to jump in and start shooting or not, Chiclet was still dead.

He sighed, coming more awake. He didn't really want to, but he couldn't stay here much longer.

A moment later he was wide awake, and damn glad that he was. There were voices over his head. People were standing there, looking down at him.

Now that he was fully conscious, he was aware of his body again. Christ, he hurt. El had a thick head, but he had some pretty thick fists, too. The sensation of drying blood on his face was unpleasantly familiar. His arm throbbed where the bullet had torn through skin and muscle on its brief tour of his anatomy; he was thankful it had gone in and out again instead of deciding to stick around.

The voices drew closer. There were two of them, a man and a woman speaking Spanish. They sounded old. He wasn't surprised. The area around Lake Chapala drew lots of rich retirees ready to leave the rat race of the big cities behind.

His first, instinctive thought was to shoot them. He hated being stared at. Especially now, when his sunglasses were missing and the whole world could look through the holes in his face. But he forced himself to lie still and forget about the guns. The simple truth was that he needed help right now. Who better than a pair of innocent old farts?

He shifted a little, and let himself groan. Immediately the old folks stopped talking to themselves. One of them leaned in a little closer, giving him the whiff of antiseptic cream. "Señor? Are you all right?"

_Do I look all right?_ he wanted to ask. _I've been shot, beat up, and I have no eyes. And my best friend just got killed because of me. Yeah, I'm just peachy._

Aloud he said, "Who's there? What do you want with me?"

"Oh." The old woman's voice turned soft. "You poor thing. Come with us." Her next words were aimed at her partner. "Roberto. Help him up."

The old man tutted.

Sands bit his lip to keep from smirking. Then he wished he hadn't. It really hurt.

"Ow."

* * *

They took him back to their house. He told them he had been beaten and mugged. That it had happened before, that was why he carried the guns. He was afraid. A blind man was a target for criminals, and he was always worried about what would happen to him.

Roberto and Elena Sanchez were impressed by how well he spoke Spanish. He told them he had always found it easy to learn another language, and this much at least was true. He told them he had come to Mexico because he had wanted to experience a simpler life. Then he had lost his eyes, and he had decided to stay.

Elena patted his hand as she wiped the blood from his face. She had wanted to call a doctor, but Sands had begged her not to. He could not afford a doctor, and anyway didn't all doctors have to report gunshot wounds to the authorities? It was better this way, no doctor, no police.

His saviors gave in when they saw how frightened he was. Roberto bandaged his arm while Elena brought him something to drink and several of the painkillers she took for her arthritis. He swallowed them gratefully, hoping they would knock him out quickly; he was a good actor but all the same, he was getting tired of having to pretend all the time.

While the old folks were still fussing over him, he sank into sleep.

* * *

It took three days for El's wish – _I want you to suffer_ – to come true. But when it did, it happened with a vengeance. And right up until the moment it happened, Sands thought he was doing just fine, thank you very much.

He didn't do much at first. Just lay around and concentrated on healing. The gunshot wound was located eerily close to the one he had received on the Day of the Dead three years ago. He found himself flexing his arm often, just so he could feel the pain and remind himself that this was a brand new wound, not the ghost of that old injury.

He recovered quickly. The knife cuts from his confrontation with Ramón had been shallow, and they were almost completely healed. His bruised knuckles stopped aching. By the third day he could eat without wincing in pain, and his nose no longer felt like it was the size of his entire head. He wondered if El was as badly beat up as he was, and found himself wishing he could redo the fight, just so he could get in a few more licks.

His benefactors left him alone, mostly. He pretended to sleep when they checked on him, even manufacturing little snoring sounds. He did not want to answer any more of their questions, or hear stories about their nauseatingly cute grandchildren. He wasn't even interested in letting someone lead him through the house so he could learn where everything was. Why bother? He wouldn't be here that long, anyway.

Nights in the Sanchez house were filled with the sounds of old people sleeping. Lots of snoring and coughing and farting, and the toilet flushing every hour as one or the other would get up and go pee. It was enough to drive Sands crazy. He lay on his borrowed bed and felt very lonely, and very cranky, and very sorry for himself.

_What the hell am I doing here?_ he thought. _I don't belong here. Time to blow this popsicle stand._

He sat up, one hand reaching automatically for his sunglasses and making sure they were on straight. "Chiclet?"

And everything crashed home.

Chiclet wasn't coming, because Chiclet was dead. He was never going to sing along to the radio again. Or try to belch the alphabet. Or grouse about the smell in their motel room. Or ask if he could have a beer, just this once, please? Or take Sands by the hand and say, "Okay, the door is straight ahead. Just five steps."

Because Chiclet was dead.

Darkness surrounded him, a suffocating hand clamped over his face. He turned his head, seeking to escape it, but it followed him wherever he went. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wanting to stand up and get out, needing to be on the move, but fear held him in place. He didn't know where he was, or where to go, or even where the fucking bathroom was. How was he supposed to know what to do next?

And here was the thing, the thing he was only beginning to understand. He had never felt blind with Chiclet. Being around Chiclet had given him back his eyes. But now Chiclet was gone, and he was drowning in the dark, and no hand was going to reach out and take his and lead him back into the land of the sighted.

Because Chiclet was dead.

He jumped in fright as something began making an awful, choking noise, and then he realized the noises were coming from him, and even worse, that he could not stop them. He jammed the back of his wrist in his mouth to try and dam the cries, but they would not be silenced.

Pain knifed through him, doubling him over. He slid off the bed and into a loose heap on the floor. He could not stop sobbing. And he had to admit, it was kind of funny, really. It had only taken three years, but he had learned something new today. He could not cry. Not for real, the kind of crying that produced tears. There was nothing left, nothing in the holes where his eyes had been. Nothing left.

Chiclet was dead and he was blind and that was never going to change. Chiclet was never going to take his hand again. He was never going to see again. He was trapped here in the dark, and no one was ever going to let him out.

The only person who had ever cared, who had ever been totally on his side, was gone. He couldn't even really remember what Chiclet had looked like. The one and only time he had seen the boy, he had been in a hurry to get rid of him. _I don't ever want to see you again._ By the time he had left Culiacán, his memory of the boy's face had already been fading, and it was all but gone now. Not that Chiclet had still looked the same, he knew that. The boy had grown up a hell of a lot while riding with him. But he had no idea if Chiclet had been turning into a handsome young man, or just one of those gawky, weird-looking kids who needed another five years to grow into their face.

Chiclet would never grow up now. Because he was dead.

Sands buried his face in his hands. The sunglasses dug into his fingers, a hateful reminder of his blindness. He ripped them off and tossed them aside, uncaring where they landed. This proved to be a mistake. The feel of his empty sockets was unbearable, and he pulled his hands away from his face, utterly revolted. For the first time in a very long time, suicide seemed like a viable option.

And still he could not stop sobbing.

"Señor?" The old fart spoke hesitantly, afraid of disturbing him.

It was like throwing a switch. The grief receded and Sands was in control again. Cold all over, but firmly in control.

He stood up, one hand resting on the edge of the mattress. "I'm fine," he said.

Roberto gulped audibly, but said nothing. No doubt he was transfixed by the ruin of Sands' face.

"Where's the missus?" Sands asked.

"Still in bed," Roberto said. "I just-- I heard-- I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"I'm fine," Sands repeated. "Where are my shades?"

Footsteps shuffled across the carpet, coming toward him, then veering off to his left. Old knee joints popped as Roberto squatted down to pick up the sunglasses. While he was thus occupied, Sands turned around and reached under his pillow. His hand closed over steel, and he pulled out the gun.

Roberto squeaked in terror. "Please, señor!"

"Just do as I say," Sands ordered. He held out his hand. "Give them to me."

More shuffling footsteps, then the sunglasses touched his palm. He took them back, feeling much more himself once their familiar weight had settled on the bridge of his nose. "Let's go wake up Mrs. Sanchez."

"Please, no," Roberto implored.

"You don't want to fart around with me, old man." He made a "go on now" gesture with the gun. "Do it."

Whimpering in fear, the old man shuffled off. Sands followed him, using the sound of slippered feet as his guide. He bumped into a few walls anyway, but he did not mind so much. He had a purpose again, and that made everything just fine.

He was going to Culiacán. He had some things to take care of there. First he would pay his pay his respects over Chiclet's grave. He knew El would have returned the body. There had probably already been a funeral. He would stand over the freshly-turned earth and say his good-byes. After that, he owed it to Chiclet to visit the boy's family. He would tell them how brave their son was. He would tell them what assholes they all were for letting him go and not fighting to keep him. Then he would leave town, and never think about the boy again.

And once all that was done, he was going back to that little town outside Guadalajara. He was going to finish what he had started. El Mariachi was soon going to be one very dead mariachi.

Then he was through. He was going to leave this fucking country. He was sick of it all. He had had enough of Mexico to last a lifetime.

However long that might be.

"Let's go, Pops." He would have been just as happy to shoot the old folks as leave them, but he needed their eyes for a little while. "We're going for a ride."

"What?" Roberto quavered. It sounded like he was crying.

Sands smiled. "We're going to Culiacán."

* * *

The church bells were tolling two o'clock when they arrived; Roberto was a slow driver. Sands had been forced to make the old lady ride in the trunk to ensure the old dude didn't get it into his head to alert any other drivers as they headed north toward Culiacán. He hadn't liked doing it, though. Not that he cared about the old lady, but if he pushed the old man too far, Roberto might suddenly decide to be a hero, and that would only get them both killed. And since he needed them, Sands was reluctant to shoot them just yet.

"Take me to the cemetery," he said. He had decided he would pay his respects first. It was the least he could do for the boy who had saved his life so many times over the years that he had lost count.

He told Roberto to cruise around and look for the newest grave, one that would lack a tombstone, but would be covered in flowers that hadn't yet begun to rot. After a few minutes, the car came to a halt. "I see one," the old man said dully.

"Good," Sands said. He made Roberto give him the car keys. "Lead me to the grave, then you can come back here and take a stroll with your lovely lady."

Roberto made an anguished whimper, but did as he was told.

The grass was short, and crunched under Sands' feet. He held onto Roberto's skinny arm and let himself be led through the cemetery. Flowers scented the air, and every step he took strengthened their bouquet. Yes, this had to be it.

"What does it say?" he asked. "Does it say anything?"

"No," Roberto said. "There is no marker. Just flowers like you said. And a few things, like a teddy bear."

Stupid. It was too soon for an engraved stone. But this was a child's grave, all right. Sands let go of the old man and held out the car keys. "Go," he said. "When I call, you come get me, or I'll shoot you both in the head and find someone else to be my chauffeur."

"Sí, señor." The old fart snatched the keys from his hand and hurried away as fast as he could to rescue his wife.

Sands knelt down, carefully brushing the ground with his fingertips. He touched several flower arrangements before he found the place where the sod had been laid down, covering the grave. He heard the sound of a trunk being popped, and then the murmuring of low voices. He registered all this, then promptly ignored it.

"Chiclet." He shook his head. "Stupid kid. You should never have come with me."

He thought of the way Chiclet had liked to sing along with the radio, especially his favorite song, the one that mixed up the French and Spanish lyrics. He remembered Chiclet crying, soon after the Day of the Dead, and thinking, _Who the hell is he crying for?_ He remembered sitting on the couch, watching soap operas while Chiclet explained what was happening with suitable melodrama and the two of them cracked up over the horrible dialogue. He remembered a seaside town on the Gulf of Mexico, wading barefoot in the surf, and Chiclet saying, "Wait, there's a broken shell. Don't step there."

Pain knifed through his chest. The grief wanted to take over again. He could not let it. "Sorry, kid," he said. And then stopped. He didn't know what else he could say. Apologies would not bring Chiclet back. Nothing would.

He stood up and turned around so he could call for the old folks, then went very still. Something was not right.

He could not hear them talking anymore.

An instant later something slammed into him from behind. Someone, actually. He was thrown to the ground, a heavy body on top of his.

A voice yelled out in Spanish. A knee dug into his back. Hands grabbed his wrists and twisted them up behind his back.

He fought in silence, not bothering to waste his breath cursing his attackers. To no avail. Someone pulled his gun from its holster and then he was weaponless. Thin cord was looped around his wrists and then he was tied, helpless, a hand grinding his face into the grass.

Footsteps approached, each one slow and measured, and accompanied by the jingling sound of little silver chains. "I knew you would come back here."

"Good for you," Sands said, spitting out a blade of grass. "You're very clever."

The hands holding him down shifted a little. One of El's mariachi buddies, probably. The third man was standing nearby, reeking of cheap wine and shuffling uneasily on the grass. "The police are on their way," El said. "I am sure they will be very happy to see you."

Some of the fight left him. A Mexican jail. Oh, this was just great. A bitter laugh escaped him. As CIA, he had been immune from such indignities; diplomatic credentials went a long way toward keeping a man from being thrown behind bars. But he was disavowed now. The asshole currently in the White House wouldn't even lift a finger to save him.

"People always talk," El said. "Isn't that what you told me?" The voice came from high above; El was standing above him. "I wonder who will find you there first. Cartel? Your soldier friends?" The mariachi made a small sound of satisfaction. "Or maybe you will just rot in a cell for the rest of your life."

Chains jingled as El crouched down beside him. "You really didn't see it coming, did you?" the mariachi asked spitefully.

Terror jolted through Sands. He would never forget what had happened the last time he heard those words. The fear gave him new strength. He struggled with all his might, but the mariachi kneeling on his back held on tight, keeping him pinned to the ground.

Sirens floated up in the distance, converging on the cemetery. The third mariachi walked off, probably to comfort the old folks he had traumatized in order to get here. The one on top of him never even moved.

The worst of his panic melted away. Sirens meant police, and that meant El had played by the rules. He wasn't about to lose any more body parts. "What goes around, comes around, hey El?" He started to laugh. He couldn't help it.

Life really was funny sometimes.


	11. Another Cantina, Another Stranger

Chapter 11

Another Cantina, Another Stranger

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, although I surely would like to.

Author's Note: Unlike my usual style, the POV in this chapter switches back and forth between two characters.

* * *

The waitress brought his check. El signed for it without even looking at the total. Chiclet's family had invited him to stay for dinner, but he had declined. He did not feel very comfortable around them. His mere presence only served to remind them of the son they had lost. 

Tomorrow morning he would leave Culiacán. He had already stayed too long. He was ready to return to his house, to his guitars, to his quiet life.

He finished his drink and glanced around. He scowled. There. The man at the bar was still staring at him.

He returned the stranger's gaze frankly, narrowing his eyes just enough to let the man know he would not be stared down. To his surprise, the man nodded a little, then stood up and began walking toward El's table.

El reached down and removed the napkin from his lap. He wadded it up and dropped it onto the table; but his right hand remained beneath the table, his fingers just brushing the pistol at his hip.

The stranger sat down across from him. He had a mustache and dark hair starting to recede from a pronounced widow's peak. "You are El Mariachi," he said.

And suddenly El recognized him. He had seen this man once before, but only once. In this very city, in fact. A lifetime ago.

"Do you remember me?" the man asked.

El nodded. "You were there. The Day of the Dead. You killed one of Barillo's men."

The stranger nodded again. He held out his hand. "Jorge Ramirez."

* * *

El Mariachi. The mythical figure who walked around with a guitar case full of guns, shooting up small towns. The man who had looked at him from the shadows. A man whose dark eyes concealed a wealth of pain. A man who could kill him without even breaking a sweat. 

For a long moment, Ramirez didn't think the man would shake his hand. Then calloused fingers gripped his own, and the former FBI agent relaxed a little.

Only a little.

"I hope you will forgive me for intruding." He gestured to El Mariachi's empty plate. "But I did not think you would meet with me otherwise." It was a standard tactic. Engage an unknown target in public, neutral territory. Give neither man the advantage. He suspected a man like El Mariachi did not have much use for things like tactics and strategy, but it never hurt to be prepared.

For Ramirez, old habits died hard.

"What do you want?"

"Just to talk," Ramirez said. He had seen the mariachi in town yesterday – the first stroke of luck he had had since returning to Mexico.

"About what?" In all the myths, he was referred to simply as "El." Ramirez thought it was a stupid nickname, but on the other hand, he did not particularly want to know the man's real name. With this one, too much knowledge was dangerous. So El it would have to be.

"A mutual acquaintance," he said. "Someone I believe we both know, to our misfortune."

El's lips quirked in an almost-smile. "I am listening," he said.

* * *

They went to another cantina. This one was smaller, dingier, and more poorly lit. It was the perfect place for a meeting between two men who did not know or trust each other. They took a booth in the back corner and they talked.

Ramirez started by explaining how Sands had manipulated him into joining the festivities on the Day of the Dead. He had been mildly interested in the possibility of capturing Barillo, but it was the mention of Doctor Guevara that had brought him on board. "He always knew which buttons to push," he said, feeling reluctant respect for his CIA counterpart.

El Mariachi listened well, but did not speak. He did not say how he had come to be involved in the coup, or what Sands had said to him. Ramirez was curious, but in the end he really didn't _need_ to know, so this silence was fine with him.

The mariachi did ask one question, however. "Do you know what happened to him? How he lost his eyes?"

Ramirez nodded. "I know." He frowned. He did not like to remember the days after the coup.

"Tell me," the mariachi demanded.

Honesty was the best way to deal with a man like this. So Ramirez told him what he wanted to know.

He had pieced together the story from his own firsthand knowledge, and from the things Sands had babbled in his delirium. It was not a pretty story. He told El Mariachi about Barillo's daughter and Doctor Guevara. How the boy had saved Sands that day. How he himself had found them in an alley, how he had tossed the cell phone back, not needing it anymore. How the boy had chased after him, pleading for his help.

"Did Sands send you?" he had asked the boy.

"No," the boy had said. He had looked up at Ramirez. "I came alone."

"If he wanted my help, he would have asked for it."

"Please, señor. He is my friend."

That more than anything had decided him.

"He almost died," Ramirez said casually, and finished his beer.

"A pity he didn't," El Mariachi whispered.

Ramirez shrugged. It was not for him to say whether Sands should have lived or died. He had done what he could to help the man, and his conscience was clear.

Eventually Sands had left Culiacán, taking the boy with him. The years had passed without any word. Then one night Ramirez had woken to find Sands standing in his bedroom, a silenced pistol aimed at his head. "He had been sent to kill me," Ramirez said. "But he didn't. Instead he gave me a warning, and told me to run." He reached for his next bottle of beer, grateful to the observant waitress who kept their table so well-supplied.

"He warned you," El said flatly, as if he did not believe it.

"He did," Ramirez said. He did not say how that warning had taken shape. Not yet. Not until El had agreed to help him. Until then, he couldn't be sure how much the mariachi could be trusted.

El made a rude noise, but said nothing.

"So I left," Ramirez said. He tipped the bottle to his lips.

"Where did you go?"

"Texas," he said. "San Antonio. It was fine for a while. But I had no real desire to stay there. So about a year ago, I returned to Mexico."

He stared at a point beyond the mariachi's shoulder. "I wasn't back here three days when they came at me. They knew I had crossed the border, you see. They were watching the Customs records."

"Government men," El Mariachi said. Even accounting for the shadows in the room, his face was very dark.

"You betcha," Ramirez said. He took a long swig from the bottle. "Of course, the men who were sent to kill me aren't the kind any government would admit to knowing about."

"Assassins," said El Mariachi. The single word dripped with disgust.

Ramirez nodded. He had almost not survived that encounter. Fortunately his old training had come to his rescue. In a way he supposed he had Sands to thank for that. Sands had manipulated him into becoming an FBI agent again, and since then, he had never really gone back. For everything else Sands had gotten wrong, he had been right about one thing: a real agent never retired.

"What did you do?"

"I went back to the States again," he said simply.

El Mariachi thought about this. He gripped his beer bottle with both hands and stared into its depths. "Why did he warn you?"

"I don't know," Ramirez said. "Maybe he was paying me back. I helped save his life after the coup and he knows it."

The mariachi shook his head and muttered something Ramirez could not hear.

"I have a friend in San Antonio," he said. "He was my partner's brother. He was a cop in Dallas." He took another long drink. It never failed to amaze him how badly he could still hurt when he thought of his dead partner. "I went to see him. He told me he could get me across the border without official channels learning about it."

"So now you have come back," El Mariachi said. "Again. But why?"

"To finish this," Ramirez said. "I left San Antonio for a reason. Culiacán is my home now. I will not be chased away from my home."

El Mariachi nodded in understanding. "Sometimes," he said, "a man has no choice."

"Sometimes," Ramirez agreed. "But there is a choice this time. Unfortunately, I am not the one who can make that choice. Only one man can."

"Sands." El's scowl deepened.

"He was working with the new Presidente. He has made numerous contacts within the government. He can call off this manhunt." _Give me back my life_. "He is the only one who can do that."

"They will not listen," El said.

"He can make them listen. I am telling you," Ramirez leaned forward, "within two weeks of working for them, Sands knew all their dirty little secrets. By now he probably knows enough to publicly crucify every single man in the Mexican government. They will listen to him. He will give them no choice."

"They could always just put a bullet in his head," El offered.

"No." Ramirez shook his head. "Sands is too smart for that. He'll have covered his bases. Secret files. Secret informants. Well-paid people ready to come forward if he suddenly dies. And they will know that."

He drank his beer. Of course, he was assuming a lot here. The Sands of old would have done all the things he had just described. But this new Sands, the one who had been created on the Day of the Dead? He didn't know. He could only hope.

"And why are you telling me all this?" asked El Mariachi.

"Because I need your help," Ramirez said. "My new partner and I have been in Mexico for five months now, and we cannot find Sands. I had hoped you might have some information on his whereabouts."

An expression Ramirez could not name flickered across the mariachi's face. "Why would I have that kind of information?"

"Because you were the last," he said. "Sands was ordered to hunt down and kill everyone associated with the coup. He would save you for last." Of this he had no doubt. It was exactly the kind of thing Sands would do. Save the best for last.

"What do you plan to do with him?" El asked.

He shrugged. "Whatever I have to do, to gain his cooperation. But I don't think it will be too hard. I figure he's probably sick of working for the Mexican government by now. He'll be looking for a change of scenery." Then he winced, embarrassed that he had used such an expression when talking about a blind man. Sands himself had never seemed to mind, and in fact had never stopped saying things like, _I see_ and _Would you look at that?_ but Ramirez had always felt uneasy around those kind of words.

"He will not cooperate," El Mariachi said. "Besides, he cannot help you. Not anymore."

Ramirez frowned. "What does that mean?" El did not speak as though Sands were dead, but there was such flat finality in the mariachi's voice that he was instantly suspicious. "Not anymore?"

"He is in prison," El Mariachi said. "For the crimes he has committed while in this country."

Too shocked to speak, Ramirez concentrated on finishing his beer. Sands was in jail! It was the last thing he had expected to learn. He found it hard to believe that such a thing was possible. The Sands he had known was too slippery, too hard to catch. What had happened?

He was unaware he had asked the question out loud until El answered. "He killed a child."

Ramirez's eyes widened. He breathed the boy's name, the boy Sands had always insisted on calling Chiclet.

El Mariachi nodded. "He did not pull the trigger himself, but he was responsible for the boy's death." He shifted in his chair. "That is why I am here. I am paying my respects to his family."

Ramirez nodded. He found it hard to order his thoughts. "When did this happen?"

"One year ago," El said flatly. "Almost to the day."

Ramirez nearly choked on his beer. A full year!

He could scarcely believe it. It seemed so unfair. He was a year too late. All Sands' information would be obsolete by now. His contacts would probably not even acknowledge him, having gratefully slipped back into their thankless jobs where no one singled them out and paid them exorbitant sums of money to play at being a spy.

His entire plan was slipping away, right before his eyes. "Tell me about the boy," he said. "How did he die?"

El Mariachi held his beer bottle tightly. "Sands found me one night, at the cantina where I was working as a mariachi…"

Telling the story took some time. Ramirez managed to make his way through yet another beer, despite the fact that a dimly alarmed portion of his brain was trying to frantically signal him to slow down. He was in no mood to stay sober tonight. He needed alcohol in order to sit here and listen to this story. Lots of it.

And what a terrible story it was. He listened as El Mariachi explained how Sands had manipulated him into thinking they were working together against the cartel. He heard about the trip to General Juan Garcia's villa and the way Sands had betrayed his former military allies. He winced as El described the resulting shoot-out, and how the boy called Chiclet had died in Sands' arms.

"I blame him," El Mariachi said. "But I also blame myself. I should have known what was happening. I was suspicious of Sands. But I believed the boy. He seemed genuinely concerned about everything."

"He probably didn't know everything," Ramirez pointed out. "It sound like Sands kept some secrets from him, too."

El nodded firmly. "That is why he is dead today. Why I am here, visiting a family who grieves for their son. I do not want to be here." He looked up at Ramirez. "But last year when I delivered their son's body to them, they begged me to stay, to tell them what I knew about their son. I promised I would find out everything I could, and come back. That is what I have done. I have fulfilled my promise. I will never return to this place again."

The pain in the mariachi's eyes was devastating. Ramirez swallowed hard. "Then what will you do now?"

"I do not know," came the answer.

"Are you still hunted?" Ramirez asked. He wanted this man on his side. El Mariachi was a formidable man and he could be a powerful ally.

El made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Always," he said.

"Then stay," Ramirez said. "Come meet my partner. We will talk. We will think of something."

El Mariachi looked up at him. "Can your partner bring back the dead?"

"No," Ramirez said, thinking of his first partner, thinking of his wife. "But Eddie has many contacts in official places, and so do I." He smiled grimly. "I used to be FBI, you know. Among the three of us, I'm sure we can find a way to get these men off our backs and take our lives back."

"I would like that," El Mariachi said quietly.

_So would I._

"Then come with me," Ramirez said. "Please."

* * *

They met in a small apartment near the center of the city. El said little as Ramirez introduced him to Eddie Archuleta, the older brother of his FBI partner, Danny Archuleta. Both boys had been born and raised in Texas, and both had gone into law enforcement against their mother's wishes. It was obvious that Ramirez wasn't as close to Eddie as he had been to Danny, but there was still a tight friendship between the two men. 

El observed all this with interest. The older Archuleta brother was tall and tanned and he shaved his head. He looked like a man who didn't take shit from anybody. In fact, he looked exactly like every American cop El had ever imagined.

"Prison," Archuleta said, after hearing the whole sorry tale. His mouth thinned. "That figures." He knocked back a glass of whiskey.

"Maybe we should pay him a visit," Ramirez said. He slumped in an armchair. "Tell him what we want."

"I doubt he can do anything from in there," Archuleta said. "He won't have access to any of his contacts."

El listened to all of this with growing concern. He had a very bad feeling about where this conversation was headed. He was starting to wish he had not accepted Ramirez's offer. He did not belong here.

"Besides," Archuleta added, "a visit wouldn't solve anything. Give me ten minutes alone with this guy and I could tell you everything he knows. But that's not gonna happen with two inches of bulletproof glass between us."

Ramirez nodded glumly. El took a drink from his glass, just enough to be polite, and said nothing. Eddie Archuleta knew nothing. Not if he thought he could make Sands talk after just ten minutes. Ten years wouldn't be enough, El thought angrily. Some men were just made to keep secrets, and Sands was one of them.

"You know," Ramirez said, "I could always call Benning. See if he could help."

Archuleta pondered this. He had very light blue eyes that contrasted sharply with his tan. "Could he do it?"

"I don't know." The former FBI agent struggled to sit up straighter in the soft confines of the armchair. "He might."

"Do it." Archuleta nodded decisively. He looked at El. "Do you have any friends you could call? Men you trust?"

"They will not come for something like this," El said.

Archuleta lifted an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Not even to save your life?"

El decided he did not like this man. That raised eyebrow, that tone of voice, they were false. This man was very much in control of his emotions. There was no reason to play the fake.

In a way, Archuleta reminded him of Sands. Not the Sands who had made him think he was facing off against the cartel, but the Sands who had made him agree to kill General Marquez. The Sands who didn't care about the cost, so long as he got what he wanted.

With an effort, El kept hold of his temper. He was through with being lied to and manipulated. He much preferred the straightforward honesty of a man like Ramirez. At least Ramirez hadn't felt the need to play games with him. "Why should I call them?" he challenged Archuleta. "What would I be asking them to do?"

Archuleta smiled humorlessly. "We've got a man to get out of prison."


	12. Reunion

Chapter 12

Reunion

Disclaimer: I don't own El or Sands or anybody. Robert Ramirez does.

Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is so long in coming. I was out of town for a while and then I got sick, and well… I hope this is worth the wait.

Many thanks to my beta reader, Melody, for getting this chapter back to me in record time, despite having a very full plate. I love you, girl.

* * *

It took three days and lots of alcohol for El to accept that he would never have his freedom as long as Sands was locked away. With great reluctance he called Lorenzo and Fideo and asked if they could once more come join him in Culiacan.

Being his friends, they said yes, of course. But when they heard what he wanted them to do, they balked.

"Are you crazy?" Lorenzo demanded. "Last year you needed our help capturing this guy. Now you want us to help you break him out of jail?"

"No." El shook his head. "There will be no prison break. Ramirez knows men from when he was FBI. He can get false papers drawn up. We will show them to the warden and he will believe we have come to take Sands into U.S. custody and take him back to the States." He looked firmly at his friends. "No guns."

Lorenzo scowled, obviously liking this idea less and less, the more he learned about it.

"How do you even know he's still there?" Fideo asked. "He probably got himself killed one night. Or someone found out he was there and _they_ came for him." He paused dramatically. "In the middle of the night."

"He is there," El said. Archuleta had found that out, although El did not know how. He preferred not to. The American cop was scarily good at ferreting out information and finding sources of information. He should have been the spy, El had thought more than once. Sometimes late at night he wondered just what would have happened to his country if Archuleta had been running things four years ago, instead of Sands.

"This is insane," Lorenzo said. "You don't even know it will work."

El just shrugged. He had thought so at first, but now he was committed. He was tired of running and hiding, tired of living a half-life, waiting for the next person to find him. If Sands could put an end to that, then he would do whatever was necessary to make it happen.

"Come stay with us," Lorenzo suggested. "We could use you in our show."

"They will find me," El said wearily. As tempting as the offer was – and in truth, remembering the sleazy bars that Lorenzo and Fideo frequented, it was not very tempting at all – he could not accept. He would never endanger his friends like that. He was incredibly grateful to them for all their help, but when it was all over, he would say good-bye. It was easier this way. Better that he watch them drive off, than say his farewells over a fresh gravesite, like he had done with Quino and Campa. Better that these friends stay alive, annoyed at him and his stubbornness, then die for their love and loyalty.

"What the hell." Fideo slapped his hand on the table. "I'm in." When Lorenzo gave him an incredulous look he said, "What? I wasn't doing anything this weekend anyway."

"No," El said, "it is not happening so soon. It will take some time to draw up the papers without arousing suspicion. Ramirez's friend needs a few weeks. I will call you when we are ready."

Lorenzo sighed heavily, but he gave in, just as El had known he would. "This is _loco_," he swore. He pointed at El. "Call me when you know the time."

El just nodded.

* * *

_Loco_ or not, the plan forged ahead. Archuleta had named himself their leader. He was the only American, and the warden of the prison would be expecting Americans. Then he pointed out the small detail of Sands knowing their voices. Sands had heard Fideo and Lorenzo on the day he had been arrested, and it was assumed that he would remember them. Therefore Archuleta would do all the talking. Lorenzo could produce a passable American accent, but it was agreed that he would only speak if necessary. Fideo, Ramirez, and El himself would all remain silent, hulking presences in the background. 

The other thing they all agreed on was the fact that Sands could not be told what was happening. If he knew the truth, he would never cooperate. Sands' help could only be counted on if he thought he was also helping himself.

Archuleta had a way around that. "We tell him we're taking him back to Langley, but first we'll have a debriefing here in Mexico. If he is willing to cooperate and tell us what he knows about El Presidente's government, we are willing to forgive certain discretions. Once he tells us what we need, he'll be free to go his own way."

Ramirez frowned. "You can't let him go."

The former cop stared at him with exasperation. "Why not? From everything I've heard about this guy, we don't exactly want him hanging around any longer than we need him. You say I can't just shoot him in the back of the head when we're done with him, but we need to do something with him. So why not just let him go?"

"Because Sands is the one who must make the calls," Ramirez said. "If we were to contact these government men and try to blackmail them, we would be dismissed as fakes. But they will believe Sands. They know him and what he is capable of."

Archuleta thought about this for a long moment. "You're right," he finally said. "It's too dangerous to let him go. We need that information for ourselves. I don't believe for an instant that he'll level with us. He'll hold something back if we let him. Then he'll make his calls and find a way to tip them off about us, and we'll find ourselves with our heads in a noose anyway."

In spite of his dislike for the man, El was inclined to agree. Sands was too clever not to leave himself a way out. It was better for everyone involved if it all came out. Every lie, every secret. That way they could save themselves if the hunt began all over again a year from now, or even five years from now. And El had no intention of returning to that lifestyle. He was done hiding. He wanted to live in the open, where all secrets were exposed.

* * *

It took Ramirez's FBI friend over a month to get the fake papers they needed. By that time El was ready to walk into the prison with a rifle and demand that Sands be handed over. Now that he had made his decision, the waiting seemed unendurable. He wanted to begin the rest of his life as soon as possible.

It was, of course, November 2 when it all went down. The Day of the Dead. Four years to the day since Marquez and the coup. El thought there was a certain poetry in the shared date.

They left shortly after nine o'clock. Fideo stayed behind in the apartment, making sure everything was prepared on his end. Ramirez drove, with Archuleta in the front seat beside him. El sat in the back with Lorenzo. He was nervous, but not worried.

He was ready.

The prison was located south of the city, not far from the coast. It took almost an hour to get there. Ramirez parked right next to the front door, ignoring all the signs that said only official vehicles could park there. The four men got out of the car, all of them wearing somber dark suits. El tugged at his suit jacket, not liking the way it constricted his movements. He wanted his own clothing back. In the silence created by his missing bells, he could almost hear Sands laughing at him. He was only a mariachi. What was he doing here?

The receptionist goggled at them as they walked in. Archuleta led the way, flashing a badge that was as fake as the documents he held in his other hand. "We are here to see Warden Gúzman."

The woman nodded, still staring. "Just a moment."

It went surprisingly well, El had to admit. All he had to do was stand in the background of the warden's office and look dour. He could do that. Archuleta did all the talking, and he was very good at it. The warden did not suspect a thing. After expressing some surprise at the lack of advance notice he had been given, and expressing further surprise by the monetary "donation" his visitors had brought, he became eager to cooperate.

"I must admit we will be glad to be rid of him," Gúzman said. His English was heavily accented. "He has been a problem since the day he was brought here."

Archuleta only nodded. El wished he would ask what the warden meant, but Archuleta continued to look unconcerned. Apparently officers of the American government weren't supposed to be too interested in the men they had come to arrest.

They had to wait while Sands was brought out. Gúzman clasped his hands on top of his desk calendar and smiled nervously. It was cold in his office from the air conditioning. "Can I get you anything?"

"No," Archuleta said. He smiled, but only with his lips. "We have a plane to catch."

This did not make much sense, but the warden nodded. "Of course, of course."

El shifted his weight carefully from one foot to the other. He wanted this part to be over with. Once they were away from the prison, he could finally begin his new life. Until then, he was stuck here, playacting, forced into yet another role he had not wanted.

Knuckles rapped on the frosted glass window set in the warden's door. "Come in!" Gúzman called. Despite the air conditioning, he was sweating.

A heavyset guard walked in. One thick hand held Sands by the upper arm. "_Hice el mejor que podría_," he said in Spanish.

The warden stood up, nodding and licking his lips. He glanced at Archuleta, then El, then the others, no doubt suspecting they had all understood the guard. For a group of men supposedly from the U.S., only two of them looked American; El himself had no illusions about his appearance. But it did not matter. Let Gúzman think the CIA had sent men to Mexico who could understand the language. Let him think whatever he wanted. Just so long as he did what they wanted.

El looked at the guard, his eyes narrow. _I did the best I could,_ the man had said. Just what exactly did that mean? Then he looked at Sands, and he supposed he knew just what the guard had meant, after all.

A year in prison had done Sands no favors. His hair was long and stringy and he was thinner than before. A dirty, dark blue bandanna was wrapped around his missing eyes. He was shackled at the wrists and ankles, a long chain connecting the two sets of manacles. He stood docilely in the guard's grasp, his head lowered.

El caught Lorenzo's eye. "Faker," his friend mouthed.

El did not respond, but privately he thought Lorenzo was right. He did not believe for an instant that Sands was as humbled as the image he projected. This was just another one of his charades, a way of throwing people off guard and luring them into thinking what he wanted them to think. Sands had no idea why he was being summoned to the warden's office, yet here he was, already playing his games.

"You!" Gúzman drew himself up. "You are being remanded into the custody of the United States Government. They will take you back home, where you will be prosecuted for the crimes you have committed."

Sands flinched, but did not speak.

The warden looked disgusted. "He's all yours."

* * *

Archuleta took control once again. He led Sands out the front door and into the bright morning, his stride brisk. With the cuffs about his ankles, Sands had a hard time keeping up, and twice he stumbled and nearly fell. Archuleta paid no attention. "Keep up now," was all he said.

Ramirez walked past them on his way to the driver's side. He was frowning mightily.

"Something about this sucks," Lorenzo said quietly.

El nodded. Now that they were outside in the fresh air, he could admit to his own feelings of unease. "Watch him closely," he said. "He is not what he pretends to be."

Lorenzo snorted. "You don't have to tell me that."

They got in the car. Sands sat in the middle of the backseat, between El and Lorenzo. He kept his head down and did not say anything. He was wearing his own clothes again, not the gray prison uniform El had half-expected, but he smelled bad. El wrinkled his nose and wondered when Sands had showered last.

Ramirez started the car and backed out of the parking space. No one spoke.

El sat stiffly upright. The backseat was not very roomy, and his left thigh and arm were pressed against Sands. He tried to shift a little to his right, but there was really nowhere for him to go. He could only hope Sands would not recognize him somehow just through that touch.

"Nice to see you, Officer Sands." Archuleta buckled his seat belt, then turned around so he could stare at the man he had only heard about for so long. "Aren't you going to say hi?"

Sands remained silent. His cuffed hands were in his lap. El could see raw patches on his wrists, as though he had been shackled for a long time.

"No questions?" Archuleta continued. "You're not curious about what's happening in the good ol' US of A? Don't you even want to know how we found you?"

Sands said nothing.

Archuleta made an impatient gesture. Interpreting this as a signal to act, Lorenzo whipped his arm up, smashing his elbow into Sands' face.

Sands threw his head back, gasping in surprise and pain, but he still did not speak.

El looked out the window. He had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. He would never like Sands, but he had to admit to himself that he admired the man's stubbornness.

Ramirez had been watching all this through the medium of the rearview mirror. Now he tapped his throat and shrugged in Archuleta's direction.

Archuleta scowled. He gestured at Lorenzo again. "Check him. See if he can still talk."

Lorenzo's eyes widened. He shook his head rapidly, miming a sharp biting gesture. El couldn't blame him for saying no, but for some reason his friend's alarm struck him as amusing. He bit down harder on his lip.

Archuleta rolled his eyes. "That's all right," he said. He glared at Lorenzo, promising that this disobedience would not be forgotten. "We've got plenty of time. And the plain truth is, Officer Sands, you _will_ tell us everything we want to know. That's a fact."

Sands said nothing, but he gripped his hands together tightly.

Over his bowed head, El shared a look with Lorenzo. The younger mariachi was flustered. "What's going on?" Lorenzo mouthed.

El gave an elaborate shrug.

"Here." Archuleta held out a small silver key.

El reached out and took the key before Lorenzo could. He wanted to do it. He was curious to know what would happen. If Sands would somehow recognize him through smell or sense or just sheer precognition. He wondered idly what he would do if that happened, then decided he didn't want to know. He wanted to be surprised.

But nothing happened. He unlocked the cuffs from Sands' ankles, then removed the chain connecting them to his wrist cuffs. Sands did not even move. He might have been a statue sitting there, a statue needing a shower and wearing clothes that hung loosely on his thin frame.

Ramirez slowed down as they approached a toll plaza. Beyond the tollbooths was a rest area, and Archuleta pointed. "Stop there," he said.

Ramirez paid the toll and pulled into the rest area. At Archuleta's curt gesture, they got out of the car. El followed the others, striding carefully, still missing the counterpoint of the chains on his jacket.

They gathered in a tight circle a few parking spaces over, staring at the car and its lone occupant.

Sands remained in the backseat. If sitting alone in the car with all the windows rolled up bothered him, he did not show it. In fact, El was willing to bet a good sum of money that except for when Lorenzo had hit him, he had not moved at all since they had left the prison.

"I don't like this," Lorenzo said again. "Something's not right here."

"Is he hurt?" Ramirez asked. He looked at El, perhaps thinking the mariachi had a better view than he did up in the front seat.

"Not that I can tell," Lorenzo said, answering for El. He frowned. "Is he on drugs or something? That's how he's acting."

"He is playing a game," El said, more harshly than he had intended. Archuleta and Lorenzo could be forgiven for their ignorance, because they did not know Sands, but Ramirez should have known better. "He wants us to think one thing, while he does another." He pointed at the car. "Do not believe that."

"Oh, I don't," Archuleta said. His eyes narrowed. "Believe me, I met all kinds during my years on the force. There's nothing this guy can do that I haven't seen before."

El wondered about that, but he knew better than to say anything out loud. "Then let's go."

"No." Archuleta held up a hand. "Let him sit there a spell and sweat. Let him wonder what we're talking about."

Ramirez nodded thoughtfully, no doubt recalling his FBI training. "Most men, you leave them alone with nothing but their own fears, their imagination starts to work against them."

Archuleta was more succinct. "He'll crack faster this way." Calmly he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "Anyone want a smoke?"

El shrugged and took one. Why not?

Lorenzo ambled across the parking lot, exhaling a plume of smoke into the morning sky. El walked with him.

"I don't like this," Lorenzo said, once they had drawn out of earshot.

"So you keep saying," El reminded him.

"I'm serious," Lorenz said. "Something's not right here. I don't trust him." He gestured to the car as he said it, but his eyes were on Archuleta.

El nodded. "Neither do I."

"I mean, what's he getting out of this? Are we supposed to believe he's doing all this just to help his friend?"

"He's probably wondering the same thing about you," El said mildly.

Lorenzo looked stung. "That's different!"

El just shrugged.

"Look, all I'm saying is, don't take your eyes off him. This guy, he can't be trusted."

"Now who are you talking about?"

"Both, I guess." Lorenzo dropped his cigarette to the asphalt and ground it beneath his foot.

They stood there for a while, saying nothing. El watched the cars driving past for a while, then glanced up at the cloudless sky. It was warm for November. He imagined it was boiling hot inside the car. He grimaced. He had never been one to take pleasure in petty torments.

Archuleta whistled, breaking the stillness. "Time to go."

They headed toward the car. Archuleta opened the back door.

El froze. For a guy who was supposed to be so smart, Archuleta had just made one hell of a mistake. It would take approximately one-tenth of a second for Sands to figure out where Archuleta's gun was, and another half-second for him to shoot the man. While El himself would not grieve over Archuleta's death, he knew Ramirez would. And he could not stand by and let Sands kill another man. Not while he could stop it.

"Wait!" He sprinted toward the car. He pulled his gun and aimed it at Sands, praying he wouldn't have to use it.

Archuleta never even looked up. "Let me see this," he said. He reached in and pulled the bandanna off Sands' head.

Sands jumped, and cried out loudly. Thin streams of blood began to run down his face. He raised his cuffed hands, his fingers fluttering near his cheek, but not quite touching.

Archuleta recoiled. He dropped the bandanna. "Jesus."

El stumbled to a halt. He lowered his gun. He absolutely did not want to know what they had done to Sands to make him bleed like that. Whoever had hurt him must have tied the bandanna about his face while the wounds were still fresh, and as the blood dried, the fabric had stuck to his skin. Until now, when Archuleta had ripped it free. He felt sick to his stomach, watching that slow trickle of blood down Sands' face.

"That's disgusting," Lorenzo muttered.

El shouldered Archuleta out of the way. From his suit coat pocket he pulled out a pair of cheap sunglasses. Without a word, he pushed them onto Sands' face.

Sands flinched back, but still he did not say a word.

"Come on," Archuleta said. He gave Sands a pointed look. "We don't want to be late for the debriefing."

El got in the car and resumed his former seat. He tried not to look at the blood seeping from beneath Sands' sunglasses. He did not want to see it. He did not want to think how close that image must resemble history, and what had happened on this day four years ago.

Ramirez started the car again, and blessedly cool air began to circulate through the car. He pulled out onto the road.

The miles passed in silence. El gazed out the window, watching the world pass by. Next to him, Sands sat very still, trembling, but not saying a word.


	13. Interrogation

Chapter 13

Interrogation

Disclaimer: Sands and El and everyone else in this story are the property of Robert Rodriguez.

Author's Note: Random violence ahead, and lots of angst. Please be warned. Also, the POV in this chapter changes halfway through again.

This chapter is for Bainpeth, because I promised it to her ages and ages ago.

* * *

They arrived back at the apartment a little before noon. El's stomach gurgled noisily as he stepped out of the car. He hoped Fideo had lunch ready for them.

Archuleta slammed his door closed. "Welcome to your new home, Officer Sands. How long you stay here is entirely up to you."

Sands said nothing as he followed Lorenzo out of the car. He had stopped bleeding, but trails of crimson were drying on his face, all the way down to his throat. El was glad he hadn't spent too much on the sunglasses; they were probably ruined.

The apartment building was a single-story, with satellite dishes decorating the roof. It was just one more structure in an entire complex, cheap apartments built for the working-class citizens of Culiacán. Archuleta led the way toward the door, pulling the key from his front pocket. As he walked up the steps, the drapes in the front window twitched, and Fideo peeked outside, no doubt hoping the slamming of the car doors had signaled the return of his friends.

"I'm hungry," Lorenzo muttered.

And behind him, Sands exploded into action.

It all happened fast. El was on the other side of the car, helpless to do anything to stop it. He could only watch as Sands used both hands to club Lorenzo on the back of the head, knocking the young mariachi to the ground. Immediately Sands dropped with him, exploring Lorenzo's jacket until he found the gun Lorenzo was carrying. He yanked it free and thumbed the safety off.

Ramirez reacted swiftly, saving them all from what would have been quite messy. He pulled his gun, walked right up to Sands, and clocked him on the side of the head before he could even begin to turn in that direction. Without a sound, Sands slumped, falling on top of Lorenzo, who was scrambling to roll over and get to his feet.

El ran around the car, reaching the scene just as Archuleta did. "Crazy fucker," the American said. He shook his head.

"I told you!" Lorenzo exclaimed. He rubbed at the back of his head, grimacing with pain.

"You'll live," Ramirez said shortly.

The door to the apartment opened. Fideo stuck his head out. "What's going on out here?" he called.

* * *

They dragged Sands inside, into one of the back bedrooms, and laid him on a mattress on the floor. El unlocked the handcuffs and removed the manacle from Sands' left wrist. Then he raised Sands' right arm over his head and closed the empty cuff about the metal leg of the radiator. It was solidly attached to the wall; no amount of pulling and straining would allow Sands to get loose.

Fideo stared at all the blood. "What happened?" he asked.

"We did not do that," Ramirez said curtly. He glanced at Archuleta, but said nothing.

Lorenzo was still rubbing his head. "Fucker hit me."

"You've got a hard head. Quit complaining." Fideo seemed unconcerned. "Lunch is ready."

El exchanged glances with Lorenzo. "You go," he said. He was suddenly not very hungry. "Someone needs to keep an eye on him."

"I'll relieve you in about fifteen minutes," Archuleta said, in a tone of voice that made it clear he expected no argument. He headed for the kitchen. After a while, the others followed him.

El went with them, but only long enough to take a bowl from one of the cupboards. He filled it with warm water, then started to return to the bedroom.

"What are you doing?" Archuleta asked. He sat at the head of the table, ready to dive into the full plate in front of him.

"You know what I am doing," El said. He did not like being questioned by this man. For over a month he had put up with Archuleta, but that time was nearly at an end.

"Don't." Archuleta popped an olive into his mouth. "The blood on his face might freak him out. Give him a nasty reminder of what happened to him four years ago. And we need anything we can get to keep him unsettled. Keep him off balance."

_Because that's what I do. I restore the balance to this country._

El shrugged, just lifting one shoulder. He tilted the bowl and let the water run out into the sink. Archuleta nodded approvingly.

* * *

They started after lunch. Archuleta was eager to get going, to get this thing done with. He was a good man and Ramirez liked him a lot, but he was never going to replace Danny. Despite being brothers, there were fundamental differences between the two men. Ramirez had known Eddie nearly as long as he had known Danny, and yet even now his friend could surprise him. That bit of business with the bandanna, for instance. His old friend would never have just ripped it off like that, yet Eddie Archuleta had never hesitated.

Things like that made Ramirez wonder. If he was doing the right thing. If he hadn't made a gigantic mistake in bringing Archuleta to Culiacán. But even if he had, it was too late now. He was in it, whether he liked it or not.

El Mariachi brought Sands out of the bedroom and into the tiny room that most people would have used as a den. There was a computer in here, but it was in the corner, and right now it was turned off. A flat table sat in the center of the room, with four metal chairs placed around it. Archuleta was already sitting in one of those chairs, waiting.

Ramirez stood to one side, ready to do his part. He watched as El propelled Sands forward. Sands was walking under his own power, but rather stiffly. Ramirez figured he had one hell of a headache right about now. That was good. Archuleta was right. Sands was too clever for them by far. They needed every advantage they could get, if they were to gain his cooperation.

They sat him in a chair and cuffed his right wrist to the arm of the chair. Ramirez took his left wrist and knotted a loop of cord about it, then pulled forward until Sands' hand rested on the table. He tied the cord about the leg of the table and then stood back with his arms folded, and what he hoped was an impassive expression on his face.

Archuleta took a deep breath, mentally readying himself. "Welcome to your debriefing, Officer Sands."

Sands said nothing. He just sat there, his head bowed, blood all over his face.

"This is how it works," Archuleta said. "You will be returning with us to Langley, but what happens when we get there is all up to you. Cooperate now and things will go much easier for you. Refuse to cooperate, and everything will be much harder." Archuleta grinned, the cold grin of a man long used to getting his own way. "And believe me, I have no trouble doing things the hard way. So what's it gonna be?"

Predictably, Sands said nothing. Ramirez sighed.

"Fair enough," Archuleta said. Quite calmly, he picked up Sands' left hand and snapped the little finger.

Sands jolted in his chair and cried out. Then he lowered his head and clenched his jaw, and Ramirez saw that this would be the last sound he made. Part of him could not help but admire the man's stubborn defiance, but mostly it just made him feel tired. He really had no desire to watch this all day. He had never enjoyed interrogations. Danny had always done most of the work, allowing Ramirez to play the "good cop." The only problem was, there wasn't going to be a "good cop" today.

"Now." Archuleta punctuated the word with a sharp wiggle of Sands' broken finger. "We know you've been working for the Mexican government. Tell us what you know about them. A quid pro quo. You see, you have to give something in order to get something. Give us enough to make us happy, and I can promise you your sentence will be lighter."

Sands did not speak.

Ramirez winced as bone snapped again. Sands threw his head back, the cords on his neck standing out, but he managed to remain silent.

Enough of this. Ramirez left the room.

Footsteps followed him. "This will not work," El Mariachi said.

"I know," Ramirez sighed. He went straight to the liquor cabinet in the kitchen and grabbed the first bottle he saw. "Archuleta and I have another plan. In case this one does not work."

"What is that?" El sounded annoyed at not having been told this earlier. Ramirez could not blame him. He had wanted to tell the mariachi, but Archuleta had said it was better to keep it between themselves.

"I will walk in," Ramirez said. "Pretend the CIA has called me in as a witness. See if I can't get him to cooperate. Archuleta thinks if we bring up the coup, then act as if we are willing to forgive it, Sands might be more willing to bargain with us."

El made a curt gesture of disgust. He had removed his tie and suit jacket and undone the top buttons of his shirt, giving him a very uncivilized look. "This is pointless. He knows we are not the American CIA. He will never tell us anything."

A thin keening wail rose from the den. Ramirez quickly poured the contents of the bottle into a glass. "Archuleta can be very persuasive." His old partner had been the same way; the only difference was, Danny had never enjoyed it.

Fideo hurried into the kitchen. He was very pale. "Gimme some of that," he said.

El Mariachi shook his head. "You shouldn't be drinking."

"The hell with that." Fideo held out his hand.

Behind them, Sands began to scream.

Without a word, Ramirez held out the bottle.

* * *

Two hours later, Archuleta stalked into the kitchen. He looked very pissed off. He drained a bottle of beer in almost one swallow. El watched him, noticing a smear of blood on the back of his hand he had neglected to wash off.

"I think we should just tell him what's going on," Fideo said. Of them all, he had been the most rattled by the screaming coming from the den. Which was probably why he was well on his way toward being drunk. "Level with him, you know?"

"It's a little late for that, don't you think?" Lorenzo said. He had stayed until the bitter end, but he looked like he rather regretted it.

"I can do it," Archuleta groused. "I just need some more time."

"No," El said. He had no stomach for torture, and besides, they would never get what they wanted this way. "Let me try."

One of Archuleta's eyebrows shot up. "You think you can do better?"

El shrugged, trying to look casual. His dislike of this man was growing by the second. He wished now he had never met Ramirez in the cantina, or agreed to talk with him. "Perhaps."

He started for the den. Ramirez followed him. The former FBI agent grabbed his arm. "What are you going to do?" he whispered.

"Nothing," El said. Ramirez continued to stare at him, dark eyes delving into his, demanding an answer. "I am not going to hurt him," he added. He had no love for Sands, but even Sands did not deserve this.

Ramirez sighed in relief, and let go of him. "I have a bad feeling about this."

That made four of them, if you counted Fideo's squeamishness. "Your friend does not understand Sands," he said. "I do."

Or at least, he thought he did. The week they had spent together had to be worth something, he told himself. It had to be, considering the price that had been paid for it.

Ramirez nodded. "Then what are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet," El said.

Outside the den, he paused. He frowned in thought for a long moment, then turned around and went into the master bedroom, where he had left a few of his things. He had visited this apartment often during the past few weeks, but he had never stayed the night. He had spent last night in a motel, sharing a room with Lorenzo, who had snored endlessly. This morning they had driven over here together, and El had dropped his bag here, planning to retrieve it before he left this place for good.

Unfortunately, now it looked like he would be spending more time here than he had planned on.

Moving quickly now that he had made up his mind, he changed out of his sober suit and put on his old clothes. At once he sighed with relief. The chains on his pants and jacket jingled in the silence, and he shook his arms just to hear them ring out louder. He felt more himself when he could hear them, their merry jingle a sharp harmony to his thoughts.

He walked into the den, deliberately kicking his feet out a little with every step so the chains on his pants would ring out clearly. He wanted there to be no doubt in Sands' mind as to the identity of his latest visitor.

Sands, however, did not even seem to realize he had a visitor. He was slumped forward rather awkwardly, his right wrist still cuffed to the chair arm, his left hand still tied to the table. Archuleta had removed his sunglasses, but his hair fell forward, thankfully obscuring his face.

There was blood on the table.

El scowled. This had gone far enough. Sands would never tell them anything. Not this way. Sands was a man too accustomed to violence and cruelty. Turning those concepts on him would never work.

No, what would work, El suddenly realized, was the exact opposite. The very thing Sands would never expect, never see coming.

Kindness.

He unlocked the handcuffs and removed the manacle from about Sands' right wrist. He debated taking the cuffs with him, then decided against it. If Sands tried to pull any more stunts like he had outside the building, El would not hesitate to bind him once more. But for now he would leave the cuffs in here.

He untied the rope from its loop about the table leg. As the pressure eased on Sands' left wrist, he groaned and stirred.

"Stay still," El told him. He made no attempt to disguise his voice.

Sands went rigid. He did not move, but the fine tremors that seized him betrayed his fear.

El eased the rope free, noticing with anger how deep it had cut into Sands' wrist. He had done it to himself, of course, in his futile struggles to get free. But Archuleta was ultimately to blame, and El glared in the direction of the kitchen.

He dropped the bloodied rope onto the floor. Carefully he examined Sands' hand; the last two fingers were badly swollen and discolored. Only two. He was glad to see that. From the sounds coming from in here, he would not have been surprised to find all ten had been broken.

"Can you walk?" he asked. He looked around, wondering where the sunglasses had gone.

Sands did not reply. Not that El had expected him to. So he just looped his right arm around Sands' shoulders and heaved him bodily out of the chair.

Sands cried out breathlessly at the sudden movement, but he managed to get his feet under him. He swayed in El's grip, leaning heavily on El's chest. El bore this as patiently as he could, although he did turn his face away so the smell of blood and dirt would not be so strong.

At last he realized that they could stand here forever, and he shook himself. "Come on." He kicked the chair out of the way and steered Sands toward the doorway.

Sands walked docilely beside him. El was not fooled. He moved slowly, every sense burning with alertness. If Sands tried anything, he would be ready. He was never again going to be taken by surprise, never again be tricked into believing a lie.

But as they walked slowly toward the back bedroom with the mattress on the floor, El began to realize that Sands was not going to try anything. That in fact there were no tricks. This was not a game. What he was seeing now was terribly real.

He helped Sands lie down on the mattress. "Don't move," he said. "I am coming right back."

He walked away, intending to fetch the first-aid kit Ramirez had bought a few days ago, and Sands' sunglasses, if he could find them. This time he would not let Archuleta stop him, he vowed. He was through taking orders from the American.

"El."

He froze, standing in the doorway, unsure he had heard right.

"El?"

He turned around. Sands was trying to sit up. His face was a mask of blood and pain. "El?"

"What?" He came back to the mattress. "What do you want?"

"El." It seemed to be the only thing Sands could say.

El waited, practicing further patience, although it came very hard to him. But Sands did not speak again.

* * *

He returned fifteen minutes later. His arms were full; he balanced the bowl of warm water on top of several washcloths and the first-aid kit. A blanket was draped over his shoulder. A roll of white tape was hooked over one index finger, and a strip of red cloth dangled from the other. He had been unable to find Sands' sunglasses.

No one had said anything to him as he had gathered these things. Archuleta had snorted in derision, but had not dared to say anything more. El was almost sorry he hadn't. Right now he wouldn't mind a little violence. Especially a little violence aimed at Archuleta.

Sands was lying on his side. When El entered the room, he stiffened and held his breath, listening hard.

"I am alone," El said.

Apparently this did nothing to allay Sands' fear. He lay very still, his left hand cradled to his chest. When El knelt down beside the mattress, he flinched.

"I won't hurt you," El said. "Unless you try to escape, or make any sudden moves." He still did not entirely trust this passive Sands. He accepted that a year in prison could change a man, but this seemed extreme, even for Sands.

A harsh sound escaped Sands. It was probably meant to be a laugh. "Don't worry," he rasped. "I'm not going anywhere."

"So you will talk to me," El mused. He dipped one of the washcloths in the bowl, then wrung it out. Warm water ran over his wrist before dripping back into the bowl.

"I know you," Sands said.

"No, you don't," El said. He began washing the blood off Sands' face.

Sands hissed in a sharp breath. Reflexively he jerked his head back, then he stilled, and let El work.

The water in the bowl turned pink, then brighter red. El switched to a clean washcloth. A few of the larger cuts under his eyesockets began to bleed again, and El applied pressure, ignoring the obvious pain this caused Sands. "Who did this?" he asked.

Sands did not speak right away. Then he said, "Did I ever tell you my theory about creative sportsmanship?"

"No," El said. He carefully lifted the cloth, wanting to see if the bleeding had stopped.

"The theory is, in order to win, you have to rig the game." Sands paused. "Those guys…they were _very_ creative."

"I can see that," El said.

Sands made that sound again, the one that was supposed to be a laugh. "Don't."

El shrugged. He checked under the washcloth again, pleased to see that the cuts were no longer bleeding. "What did they do to you in there?" He began to clean the blood from Sands' left wrist.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Sands sighed. He shifted uneasily as the cloth came too close to his broken fingers.

"That is why I asked," El said. In fact, he wasn't sure why he had asked. Certainly he had no interest in hearing gruesome stories about prison life. It had just seemed important that he should ask.

"What do you want to know?" Sands said. His voice was gaining strength. "Do you want to know if they raped me? The answer is no. I never gave anyone a chance. Do you want to know if they beat me? The answer is yes. A lot. Did I get along with my cellmate? The answer is no. I killed him. Anything else you want to know?"

El draped the bloodstained washcloth over the edge of the bowl. "Not really."

"Good." Sands took a deep breath and let it out in a shuddery exhale.

The roll of white tape belonged to Fideo. The mariachi used it to tape up his fingers on nights when he wasn't playing. El unrolled a long strip and tore it off with his teeth. With it still dangling against his chin, he reached down and picked up Sands' hand again. "Hold still."

"Don't," Sands said weakly. He tried to pull his hand back.

El just tightened his grip. "It has to be done." With the tape in his mouth, it came out muffled and unintelligible.

Sands understood anyway. He gritted his teeth, surrendering to the inevitable. "Then just do it."

El worked swiftly, setting the broken bones and taping the fingers together. Sands did his best to remain silent, and he did pretty well, but by the time El finished, he was almost sobbing with the pain.

It was hard not to be moved by it all. El sat back on his heels and deliberately conjured up Chiclet's face. Thinking of the boy banished most of his pity. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Sands shook his head, fighting to get his breathing under control. "You missed your calling, El. You should have been a nurse."

Oddly enough, the insult made El feel better. He draped the blanket over Sands' legs. "Just don't expect me to tuck you in."

This earned him the briefest of smiles. "Okay."

"I couldn't find your sunglasses," he said. "But those cuts aren't bleeding anymore, so this should be safe." He let the end of the red piece of fabric touch Sands' cheek.

Sands jerked his head away. "What is that?"

"It was mine," El said. "I don't need it anymore." The red cummerbund had completed his outfit nicely, but outside of a cantina, it was just a useless scrap of cloth. He was rather pleased to put it to work now.

Sands allowed him to tie the cloth about his face. He knotted it gently, tugging once to make sure it wasn't too tight. "Okay?"

"Okay," Sands said.

"Good." He stood up. "I will go get some ice for your hand. I will be right back." He began to walk away.

He hadn't taken three steps when Sands scrambled to sit up. "Wait! Where are you going?" Panic lightened his voice, making it higher-pitched than normal.

El stared at him. "To get ice. That is what I told you just now."

Sands appeared to consider this. He nodded. "All right." He stretched back out on the mattress. "All right," he whispered, to himself.

Unsure what to do now, El just looked at him for a long moment. He felt profoundly uneasy again, the way he had felt in the prison when he had first seen Sands again. For a time he had been able to forget that feeling, but now he was forced to remember it.

Remember, and accept it. Because whether he wanted to admit it or not, the truth was staring him right in the face.

There was something very wrong with Sands.


	14. Creative Sportsmanship

Chapter 14

Creative Sportsmanship

Disclaimer: I don't own El or Sands, much to their relief, I'm sure. I have only borrowed them for my own evil purposes. I'll put what's left of them back when I'm done with them.

Author's Note: More shifting POV again. Also, the angst warning from the previous chapter continues in full force. Sorry guys, but it seems the action/adventure portion of this story has taken a left turn into hurt/comfort territory.

But then again, that's how we like our El and Sands, right?

* * *

El. Where was El?

He concentrated on breathing. In and out. In and out. In and out.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. He lay very still, trying desperately not to panic. When they let him hear them coming, it meant they didn't care that he knew. It meant that soon they were going to hurt him very badly.

The footsteps stopped. Only one pair. Whoever it was, he was just standing there. Looking at him.

A ghost of the old hatred of being stared at rose within his chest. _Go away! Leave me alone!_ He didn't dare say any of this out loud though.

Another set of footsteps approached. This one was accompanied by the merry jingle of chains. Immediately he breathed easier. El was coming.

"You shouldn't have done this," said a voice. It was the voice of the American, the one who had pulled and wrenched at his broken fingers until he had screamed and begged for it to stop.

"I don't care what you think," El said. He did not sound pleased.

"Now he'll never tell us what we want to know," the American said.

"Maybe," El said coldly, "you should have just asked him." Jingling chains came closer, and then a door was closed.

Sands did not move. He feared the American, who might actually be CIA. He feared all of them, even El, but so far El had treated him all right, and that was more than he had expected. Far more.

El came close. Chains jingled. A hand took his, and he flinched back, unable to help it. Something cold was placed on top of his taped fingers. "Here. Hold this."

He reached for it with his right hand, wincing already from the searing cold and the pressure of the ice pack.

"Jorge Ramirez is here," El said. "So are two of my friends. The American man is named Archuleta. His brother was Ramirez's partner."

Sands absorbed all this in silence. Old conversations flickered through his mind, reminding him how he had persuaded Ramirez to join his scheme in the first place. He wondered if the original Archuleta had been as much of a bastard as this one was. Or maybe, he thought suddenly, this new Archuleta had only become a bastard when a drug cartel in Mexico had tortured his brother to death. Maybe this Archuleta wanted his own revenge.

_I had nothing to do with that_, he thought. _It wasn't me. Don't punish me for something I didn't do!_

Not that it mattered, of course. They would do what they wanted to him, and he was powerless to stop them.

"I brought water," El said. "Are you thirsty? Can you sit up?"

At the mention of water, he suddenly became aware of a raging thirst. He lifted his head, and then El's hand was behind his shoulders, raising him up. He recoiled at first, but El did not seem interested in doing anything other than help him to sit.

"Here." Something hard made contact with his right hand. He let go of the ice pack and wrapped his fingers around the glass. It was cool to the touch.

He drank half the water without pausing for breath. He had never tasted anything so delicious. He took his time with the rest, safe with the knowledge that El would not pull the glass away just as he was finally starting to feel human again.

And in fact, El waited for him to finish, then took the glass back. "More?"

Sands thought about it, then nodded. Hell, yes. Some food would be good, too, but he did not say that out loud. He was aware that not too long ago he had been chatting to El like nothing had happened, but after hearing Archuleta's cold words, his voice seemed to have dried up again. Silence was safer, anyway. They couldn't accuse him of mouthing off if he never said anything.

He drank the second glass of water, then refused another. El eased him back onto the mattress, and rearranged the ice pack on his left hand. His fingers had gone numb with cold by now, and he could barely feel anything there. It made for a pleasant change from the last few hours.

"Get some sleep," El said. Chains jingled as he stood up.

Immediately the fear came back. If El left, he would be alone again in the dark. "Where are you going?" he demanded.

"I must talk with Archuleta and the others," El said. His voice was grim, laden with heavy promise.

_Don't leave me!_

Sands nodded stiffly. "I'll be here." Even to his ears, the words fell woefully short of any kind of humor.

Nor was El amused. "You better be. I don't want to have to cuff you to the radiator again."

"You won't have to," Sands said, very quietly.

"Good. Go to sleep." El walked away. A door opened, then closed.

Silence descended.

Sands curled up on his side and concentrated on breathing.

* * *

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Archuleta demanded. They were all sitting in the living room, watching TV. When El walked in, Archuleta muted the sound, to Fideo's obvious dismay.

El looked at Archuleta. He could never explain his motives to a man like this, or talk about the complex history between him and Sands. So he decided to keep it simple. He pointed. "Bad cop." He pointed to himself. "Good cop."

"For Christ's sake." Archuleta brandished the remote control at him. "Like that's really going to work."

"He already trusts me," El said, wondering over the strange pride he felt as he said it. "He has told me something of what happened in the prison. He killed his cellmate."

To his annoyance, Archuleta did not look at all surprised. "I know." He lifted one boot and kicked at a manila folder lying among the detritus on the coffee table. "So would you, if you had bothered to read this."

El glanced at them all. Fideo and Lorenzo kept their eyes on the TV, not wanting to get involved. Ramirez had the grace to look embarrassed, but said nothing.

He walked over and pulled the folder out from under Archuleta's boot. He knocked over an empty coffee mug and spilled corn chips everywhere, but he did not care. He opened the file and began to skim its contents.

Right away he understood why the warden had called Sands a problem. The file was filled with notations about violent behavior. On his first day there, Sands had killed his cellmate. Just broke the guy's neck with his bare hands. The guards had immediately hauled him off to a solitary cell, but when he had behaved himself, they had allowed him to return to the rest of the prison population.

Where he had immediately struck again, this time badly injuring a fellow prisoner. Once again, the guards had removed him from the others, and once again, Sands had settled into the behavior of a model prisoner.

And so it went, through the entire year. El looked up. He flapped the folder, unimpressed by what he read. "He wanted to stay in solitary. It was safer for him there."

Lorenzo nodded, judging it was safe to enter the conversation now. "A man like that, he'd get eaten alive in jail. And he knows it."

Ramirez shook his head. El discovered he was doing the same thing. "That is not true," Jorge said. "He should have been running that prison. Controlling it, within a year. Even the warden should have been jumping to do his bidding."

"Okay, so why didn't that happen?" Fideo asked.

El knew the answer.

The man currently lying in the back bedroom was nothing like the man he had helped arrest one year ago. That man from a year ago had acted like he owned the whole world. That man had walked with his head held high and a devilish smirk on his lips. That man had looked the world in the eye – despite not having any eyes himself – and refused to behave like he was supposed to. That man had shot five government soldiers and never even broken a sweat. And that man had refused to accept the fundamental thing that made him different from everyone else.

"Because he's blind," El said.

They all looked at him.

Prison had to be a nightmare for any man, El supposed. He had heard plenty of stories over the years, mostly from his first American friend, the one who had been killed while helping him look for Bucho. He had heard enough to never want to go there himself. So what must it have been like for Sands, a man who could not even see the dangers all around him?

Of course he had killed his cellmate, El thought. What choice did he have? Left among the rest of the prisoners, he truly would have been killed. So he made his choice. Made himself the killer, instead of the victim. And when that choice got him a solitary cell where the dangers were relatively low, he made another choice – to get back to that safety whenever he could. Any time his good behavior brought him back to the rest of the population, he lashed out, doing whatever was necessary to return to the place he wanted to be.

Only something in the plan had gone wrong, El thought. The evidence was in the way Sands allowed himself to be mistreated, making only a token attempt at running away. Or the fear in his voice when he realized he was going to be left alone – when isolation should be the one thing he craved above all others.

El didn't know what had gone wrong yet, but he was confident he would find out. Along with everything else he wanted to know. Sands wasn't the only one who could play games and keep secrets. El could do it, too. He could be the good guy, be the one Sands turned to for comfort and companionship. And when he had learned all Sands' secrets, he would leave and not look back, finally free to live his life the way he had always wanted.

Yet he was honest enough with himself to admit that he was standing here feeling guilty about what had happened to Sands, about the role he had played. He had deliberately left a blind man alone on the side of the road, and it had been hours before he had felt any reservations over what he had done, and still weeks later before he had felt any remorse. Now, seeing the results of his grand idea, he was ashamed of himself. Prison had broken Sands, but El had put him there. There was no escaping the fact that this was his fault.

He looked at Archuleta. "He will tell me what we want to know," he said. "I promise you that."

Archuleta stared at him for a long moment, then surprised him by smiling. It was not a very nice smile. "I believe you."

* * *

He wasted no time putting his plan into action. He thanked Lorenzo and Fideo for their help, borrowed some money from Lorenzo (of course Fideo was broke), and told them to return to their village. Fideo agreed willingly, but Lorenzo pulled him aside first. "Don't do anything stupid," his friend warned. "Call me if you need anything. Just, ah, don't expect me to be the bad cop."

El smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "I will."

Ramirez and Archuleta were less happy to leave. They had nowhere to go, for one thing; this was their apartment. El paid them for it and spoke alone with Ramirez. "It isn't safe for you in Culiacán. They know you lived here. They will be looking for you."

"If it isn't safe for me, it certainly isn't safe for you," Ramirez pointed out.

El was in no mood to argue. "I'll be fine." He knew his way around Culiacán, and if he became truly desperate, he could call upon Chiclet's family for help.

"I want you to know," Ramirez said, "this was not what I had in mind when I asked you to help us."

"I know," El said. His dislike of Archuleta did not extend to Ramirez. The former FBI agent was a good man, and El respected him. Ramirez was not to blame for Archuleta's mistakes.

"You should know," Ramirez said, "they will probably come looking for Sands."

"So they did know where he was," El said. He had been wondering about that. It had not seemed possible that an American could wind up in a Mexican prison without some kind of word reaching the government. Sooner or later someone would have investigated, and discovered the imprisoned American was none other than Sands.

"Of course they knew," Ramirez said. "But what could they do about it? Killing an American, especially one who used to work for the CIA, is too dangerous. It was safer for them to let him stay where he was. As long as they ensured his silence, he could be forgotten about."

Ramirez gave him a cell phone number and ordered him to stay in touch. "I don't like hiding," he said. "Let me know when this is all over."

El promised he would. He had every hope that the end would come within a week.

He told this to Ramirez, who just gave him a small smile. "I hope so," he said.

* * *

When the apartment was empty, he returned to the back bedroom. "Get up," he said. "We're going for a walk."

What little color remained in Sands' face drained away. "Where are we going?" He had managed to sit up by leaning against the radiator, although it looked like he was going to fall over at any moment.

"You need a shower," El told him. "You stink."

Sands made another one of those harsh bursts of laughter. "So sorry to offend."

El shrugged. "Come on."

Sands did not move.

El counted to three. And then to six. In order to win this game, he was going to have to play by the rules. But since he was making it up as he went along – practicing creative sportsmanship, if you liked – he was also in charge of creating the rules. And right now the rules said he had to be patient.

"You aren't coming?" he asked.

"I can't," said Sands.

"Why not?"

A year ago the question would have earned him a stinging insult and possibly a punch to the nose. Now El was disconcerted to see that Sands did not even look remotely angry. "I can't see where I'm going."

So he had been right, El thought. Sands' blindness was a large part of the reason he had let the prison get to him. He wondered what the other reason was.

_Patience_, El reminded himself. Last year Sands would have followed the sound of his voice and walked confidently across the room. Now he was either unable or unwilling to do such a thing. "I'll guide you," El said, pleasantly surprised to hear how normal his voice sounded as he said those strange words. He walked over to the mattress, reached down, and pulled Sands to his feet, all before the other man could even begin to protest.

Sands instinctively laid his hand on El's forearm, ready to be led. Then he broke the contact. "Why do you suddenly care what happens to me?"

El had an answer ready. He had thought of it before, figuring it would not be long before he was asked this very question. "The last time I saw you, I said you needed to suffer. Now I think you have suffered enough."

"That's very charitable of you," Sands said dully.

He placed Sands' hand back on his arm and began walking toward the door. "Not really," he said.

El walked slowly. Sands kept up, but everything about him spoke of extreme reluctance. He turned his head to one side, and he shuffled, barely picking his feet up off the floor. When they reached the doorway, his left shoulder bumped the doorframe, and he cringed back so violently he collided with El. He stopped walking. "I can't do this."

"Why not?" El asked. He was torn between pity and disgust. "You did it before. You did it for three years."

"Yeah," Sands said. Then, with the first flash of spirit he had shown all day, he added, "But I only did it because I had Chiclet."

A little surprised that Sands would dare to say the boy's name, El only nodded. He could of course say, "Well now you have me," but he knew better. Even in his battered state, Sands would know that for the lie it was.

Instead he said, "The bathroom is across the hall from this door." He remembered Chiclet at the motel in Guadalajara, telling Sands that the stairs were only eight steps away. "It can't be more than three steps," he said.

"Oh, God." Sands sounded utterly depressed. "You're really going to do this, aren't you?"

"I am," El said, and propelled him forward.

They made it into the bathroom without incident. El described the layout of the room in great detail, mentioning everything he could think of. Sands remained at his side, rather than exploring the room on his own. Given how hurt he was, El couldn't really blame him, but he was still uncertain that this was for the best. "Are you picturing this?"

"No, I'm standing here making my grocery list," Sands said.

El smiled. There. That was the old Sands. Sure, the quip sounded like it had taken a lot of effort, but it was good to hear, anyway. He couldn't exactly say why, but he was relieved to know the Sands of old still existed.

"I'll get some towels," he said. Making sure to jingle a lot, he left the bathroom, allowing Sands a few moments of privacy.

The linen closet was well stocked, if somewhat haphazardly. El took some towels off the top shelf, then went into the den. Someone had been in here, he noticed, because the blood had been cleaned off the table. He guessed it was Ramirez.

He found what he was looking for in the top drawer of the computer desk. The scissors were heavily scarred and blunt, but they would suffice for what he had in mind. He laid them on top of the towels and returned to the bathroom. He knocked on the door, then pushed it open.

Sands was sitting on the edge of the tub, looking very apprehensive. His injured hand was cradled in his lap. "Where are we?" he asked.

"Culiacán," El said. He spread one of the towels on the floor at Sands' feet. "Turn around." He made a twirling gesture with his finger, then abruptly stopped. "Feet in the tub. Your back to me."

Sands did not ask why he was being asked to do this. He just did as he was told. A single shiver ran through him.

"Hold still," El said. He picked up the scissors. "I don't want to cut you."

Sands stiffened. His shivering grew more pronounced.

The blades were duller than El had thought. He had to saw them back and forth a few times before they consented to work, and the whole thing took longer than he had planned. Still, when he was done, he had to admit it was a definite improvement. "Better?" he asked.

Sands lifted his hand and touched the ragged edges of his hair. El had cut it just above his shoulders, the way he remembered it. "Better," he said softly.

El swept the fallen hair into the towel on the floor and scooped up the whole mess. "Take a shower," he said. "I'll wait out in the hall."

Sands nodded. "Thank you."

El did not reply, but as he closed the door, he was smiling again.


	15. Playing by the Rules

Chapter 15

Playing by the Rules

Disclaimer: El and Sands belong to Robert Rodriguez, god of Mexico. I merely worship in his temple.

Author's Note: Dare I say it? The end is in sight, guys. There are only a few chapters left in this story. If all goes well, I hope to have the entire story finished and posted by Christmas.

* * *

For the first week nothing happened. The landlord pounded on the door one morning, demanding the rent, which was a day late. El paid him and then quickly closed the door again, shutting out the outside world.

Sands slept a lot those first few days. Or so El assumed. Either that, or he just lay very still for hours at a time. Which wasn't outside the realm of possibility, since even when he was awake and sitting up, he didn't move around very much. El walked him through the apartment, but he either did not care to learn where things were, or did not have the energy for it.

Nor did he say much. Had El not known better, he could have almost thought he was sharing an apartment with a deaf-mute.

During the second week, things began to seem more normal. Or as normal as they could be. Sands regained his strength, and he moved around the apartment, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence. He talked more, and on the ever-increasing occasions when his voice dipped into the old sarcasm, it sounded more natural, and less forced.

Those two weeks were hard for Sands. They were even harder for El.

Despite the fact that he was the one making up the rules, El wasn't quite sure how to play this game. He had never done anything like this before. And he had to win. His opponent was an expert at manipulation and deceit. He had to be better. Faster. Smarter.

The first rule as El knew it was patience. This was also the hardest rule to keep.

Even when Sands wasn't doing anything, he tried El's patience. El didn't understand him. _Look at you!_ he wanted to shout. _What the hell happened to you?_

Sands' behavior was baffling. Sometimes he seemed almost normal. He would roll a cigarette, cursing when his broken fingers hindered him, and then sit there and smoke and trade quips with El like nothing had ever happened. Other times he was silent and withdrawn, and nothing El did could coax him out. It made no sense, and El was well past the point of frustration trying to figure it out.

But he remembered the first rule, and he stayed patient.

The second rule was similar to the first. Kindness. The one thing Sands wasn't expecting. The one thing Sands didn't know how to cope with. Although it almost killed him, El never let himself slip and speak harshly, and he kept his hands to himself even when it seemed Sands was just begging for a punch in the face.

The third rule was more flexible. It stated that he could ask questions, but not about the things he really wanted to know. So for instance he could ask about the circumstances surrounding the Day of the Dead, but he could not ask Sands to tell him the government secrets he so desperately wanted to hear. Soon he would ask, but not yet. It was not time.

For his part Sands indulged El – when he felt like speaking, that was. Which wasn't too often. But he willingly enough told El what had happened on the day of the failed coup, and described how it had all fallen apart around him. He told El about Ajedrez, giving El a moment of nasty surprise when he realized the woman who had saved his life after his escape from Marquez's villa was the same woman who had betrayed Sands. Still later Sands told him that he had been blinded on Barillo's command, and that a doctor named Guevara had done the deed, although that was all he said, leaving out the details. And on further reflection, that was just fine with El.

Since the rules of the game demanded that he play nice, he returned the favor and told his side of the story. He talked about his fight with Cucuy's goons, and the wild motorcycle chase culminating in his capture and imprisonment at Marquez's villa. He thought about saying that Ajedrez was the one who had helped him return to Culiacán, then decided against it. Instead he told Sands about his decision to help El Presidente, and how he had accomplished that goal while also taking his revenge on Marquez.

This was on their fourteenth day together in the apartment. Sands was curled up on one end of the couch; El sat on the other end, two cushions separating them. Sands nodded. "I thought you were dead," he said. He did not say when he had learned otherwise, or what he had thought upon discovering the truth.

And this was one of his talkative days.

It was almost six, and El was starting to think about dinner. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "Should we move into the kitchen?"

Sands tilted his head back against the couch. "You can cut the crap, El. I know you don't give a shit about me."

El made a face – one good thing about living with a blind man was that he never had to worry about his expression giving him away. "You are wrong," he said, making sure he kept his voice light. "Besides, I had a wife and daughter once. Maybe I just miss having someone to take care of."

"Yeah, right." Sands sounded tired. "I know what you want." But he did not argue the point, and a little while later he even came into the kitchen to help El with dinner.

* * *

The next day, Ramirez called. El went outside so he could talk in relative privacy, but he still kept his voice low. The old Sands would have shamelessly eavesdropped, but he could not be sure about this new Sands. Still, it was better not to take any chances. "Where are you?"

"Monterrey," said Ramirez. "I don't like it. Too many tourists."

El had never been there. "Have you heard anything?"

"I know they had a roadblock set up around Culiacán," Ramirez said. "But I imagine you already knew that."

El nodded. "They do not seem to be looking here any more."

"They'll assume he's gone into hiding," Ramirez said. "Probably they're checking out every place he ever went while he was working for them. You haven't contacted the boy's family, have you?"

"No." As much as he wanted to, he did not dare see anyone from Chiclet's family. Men would be watching, waiting to see if Sands attempted to shelter with them. It was too risky, and El had no intention of bringing further pain into their lives.

"Good. Have you learned anything yet?"

"Several things," El said. "None of which are things I want to hear."

Ramirez sighed. "Has he figured out what you're doing yet?"

El thought about this. Sands was incredibly clever, and even a year in prison had not dulled his ability to detect bullshit. Had El still doubted this, all he had to do was remember Sands' comment from yesterday. _I know what you want._

So yeah, Sands had it figured out. But the thing was, El thought maybe he didn't care. He knew, and he didn't care. He had been treated so badly in prison that he was grasping eagerly at any kindness offered his way. His life was so miserable now that a lie was preferable to the truth.

"He knows," El said.

"Damnit," Ramirez swore.

"It does not matter," El said. "I will still get what I want."

* * *

On the sixteenth day he could no longer stand to stay in the apartment. He walked out the front door, counted the steps to the car, and then came back inside. "Come on," he said.

Sands was on the couch, doing his best impression of a marble statue. At El's sudden command, he managed to look even more immobile. "What?"

"I am tired of sitting still. We're going for a ride," El said.

Sands looked as though he wanted nothing more than to blend in with the couch and evade detection. "No, I'll stay here," he said.

El stalked forward. With every step he took, Sands shrank a little further into the cushion at his back. "El…"

El seized his arm and lifted him to his feet. "We are going," he said firmly. He walked Sands toward the still-open door. "It is time we left this place."

Sands did not balk until they reached the front step and he felt the warm sunlight on his face. Then he abruptly dug in his heels and tried to pull his arm from El's grasp. "No," he said. "I can't."

"It is easy," El said. "Two steps. Then a set of stairs. Four of them altogether. Then another six steps to the curb. Then three more to the car door." He let go of Sands' arm and gestured at the car. "Simple."

Sands shook his head. "I can't," he repeated. He spoke lightly enough, but it was forced. El could hear the tremor behind the words.

He thought back to his experiment in the Plaza Genova, when he had walked down the hall with his eyes closed. He remembered his doubts, the way he had worried that he was going to walk into a wall, or trip and fall. And he had been able to see the hallway first. He had been able to open his eyes whenever he got bored with experimenting.

Sands could not. Sands was forever trapped behind darkness. Sands was never going to get to peek at the hallway first before walking down it.

Standing there, trying to imagine that horror, El felt something stir in his chest. He did his best to ignore it. "I just described it to you," he said. "I don't know what else you want me to do."

Sands gave him a brittle smile. "How do I know you're not going to just toss me down those steps? Or that you won't let me walk into a lightpost or something?"

El was honestly puzzled. "Why would I do either of those things?"

"You tell me." Sands favored him with that harsh laugh, the one El had never heard him make until two weeks ago. "Have you ever heard the phrase, 'walk the gauntlet'?"

El had. "Yes."

Sands spoke with none of his usual flair. There was no emotion in his voice at all as he said, "The guards used to line up in the hall and make me walk between them. I couldn't see them. I never knew what to expect. Broken glass on the floor. Someone's lighter." He lifted the sleeve of his T-shirt, revealing an old burn scar on his upper arm. "If I got too close to them, out came the batons.

"Or here's a fun game, if you're looking for ways to practice creative sportsmanship. You could play this one with your mariachi buddies. Push the blind man around between you guys. One point when you hit him. Two points when you make him fall down. Whoever gets the most points gets to beat the shit out of him until he passes out."

El was horrified. That thing that had been twisting in his chest suddenly stabbed him harder. He realized it was sympathy. Not pity, but true sympathy. And it was mixed with anger. Aimed not at Sands, but at the ones responsible for the way Sands just stood there, telling him these awful things.

He suddenly wished he could go back to the prison. He wanted to find the guards and teach them a thing or two about being helpless.

He understood now. He got it. He knew why Sands was so afraid, why Sands had no interest in doing anything, why Sands did not want to leave the apartment and its familiar rooms. Four years after being blinded, Sands had finally learned to fear the darkness.

The rules of the game required him to say something nice now, but he found he did not care about the rules. He wanted to say it. Because he believed it.

"I will never do those things," he vowed. And he meant every word.

"Fuck that," Sands said. "I'm going back in." He turned around and began feeling for the door, a tight expression of annoyance on his face.

"Sands." El took his arm and turned him around. "You can do this." He tried to sound encouraging. "Just one step at a time."

"Really?" Sands sounded incredibly impressed. "So that's how you do it! Silly old me. I didn't realize they walked differently in Mexico. My bad." The false cheer fell from his voice. "Fuck you, El."

After two weeks of silent brooding, it was almost a relief to see Sands get angry about something. And El was not about to give up. It was high time Sands left the apartment and rejoined the world. "It is all right to be afraid," he said. "I don't--"

Sands decked him.

El never even saw it coming. One minute he was standing on the front porch, trying quite calmly to have a conversation. The next thing he knew, his jaw was flaming with pain and he was staggering backward. His right foot slipped onto the step below, and his ankle twisted beneath him. He flailed out, almost caught the black iron railing, and then fell down the four steps leading to the sidewalk below. He landed on his ass, and very nearly did a complete backward somersault before he was able to get himself under control and sit up.

"Shit!" he hollered.

Sands smiled, a barely-there lifting of one side of his mouth. "Okay. _Now_ I know where I'm going." Holding onto the railing, he came down the steps and then stopped. Even on flat ground, he did not let go of the railing – walking down those stairs had been very difficult for him, no matter how easy he had made it look. "Thanks for the tip."

El stood up. His jaw hurt. His ass ached. His right ankle was throbbing. But he felt stupidly pleased about it all. "Any time," he said dryly.

Sands flinched back a little, obviously not having expected El to be so close. His hand tightened on the railing. "So now what?"

"We go," El said.

* * *

He drove north, following the road that paralleled the coast. It felt good to be out again, breathing fresh air and feeling the sun on his face. He turned up the radio, tapping along with the music on the steering wheel.

Sands did not speak, but El thought he was glad to be there, too.

Sinaloa was a pretty state, El thought. It was a shame so much of it was overrun by cartel. He drove until they reached a town with the name of Guayabo, which translated to "guava tree." The town was situated right on the water, and it had at least one outdoor café. Hungry and ready for a break, El decided to stop.

"Where are we?" Sands asked.

El told him, including the translation. Sands pursed his lips. "I know what it means," he said with disdain.

A waitress seated at one of the outdoor tables was watching them, perhaps hoping they would not get out of the car and make her work today. El looked at Sands. "Where did you learn to speak Spanish?" he asked.

Sands shrugged. "I pick up languages easy," he said. "It's part of that whole 'being a genius' thing."

El had no answer for that. He wasn't sure if Sands was being serious or not.

He got out of the car. The waitress sighed and heaved herself to her feet.

Sands was slower to leave the car. "Where are we?" he repeated.

"A café," El said. He looked for a name on the building but did not see one. "It seems like a nice place to eat."

"Oh, I'm sure it is," Sands sighed. "Very well. Lead on."

El guided him to one of the tables. The waitress watched all this with interest. She dropped two menus on the table, then reached up and adjusted the big red and white umbrella that provided shade. She pulled a pad from her apron and tapped it with her pencil. "Something to drink?"

* * *

It was nice to eat a meal someone else had cooked for a change. Even nicer to eat it while sitting outside, pleasantly shaded from the November sunshine. El had two beers and even ordered dessert.

Sands seemed to feel the same way. He ate with more appetite than El had ever seen, chasing down all the pork on his plate. He was relaxed in his chair, some of the miserable tension gone from his face. He even made a few jokes, once making El almost choke on his beer as he fought to keep from laughing loudly.

When they were done eating and had smoked a few cigarettes and sat there long enough to earn a grumpy look from their waitress, El suggested walking down to the water. He had not seen the Pacific in many years, and he felt like standing on its shores. The last time he had done so, Carolina had been with him. It was time for him to face the ocean again.

Sands visibly winced at El's suggestion. "I don't know about you, but I'm comfy right where I am. I think I ate too much, anyway. I don't feel like going for a walk."

"I ate more than you did," El pointed out. In fact, he noticed for the first time that even after two weeks of freedom, Sands was still too thin. He frowned. "Come on. It isn't far."

"Fine." Sands scowled. "But you owe me one."

Signs posted along the road indicated the way to the beachfront. El walked slowly down the center of the sidewalk, favoring his right ankle. Sands kept pace beside him, using the sounds of footsteps and jingling chains to guide his own steps. He was obviously unhappy, but equally determined to do this thing and succeed.

And El wanted him to succeed. When they reached a wide plaza, he stopped walking and simply stood there on the corner. "Listen," he said. "Tell me what you hear."

He had half-expected another punch to the face. Instead Sands surprised him by taking a small step forward, cocking his head ever so slightly, and listening.

They stood that way for a long time, until El began to suspect that Sands was not really listening, but only mocking him. Then Sands stirred. "Open-air market," he said. "Pedestrian only. The cars turn at this corner and can't go straight. You got your basic big building on the right. Church, I'm guessing? Flower vendor. Little old lady. Probably wearing a black shawl over her head. Jewelry and beads next to her. Another little old lady. Guitar fellow next to her. You're probably drooling over his merchandise. Someone's selling tacos, and someone else has lemon ice or lemonade. Is that good enough for you, El?"

"Actually," El said, "the woman selling flowers is not wearing a shawl."

"Fuckmook," Sands muttered. "Are we going to stand here all day or what?"

"We can go," El said. "But do you understand now? You don't need me. Or anyone. You never did. You can do this."

The old Sands would have offered to poke out his eyes so he would know just how stupid that statement was. This new Sands just shrugged, and did not say anything.

* * *

They crossed the plaza and followed the lane that led to the beach. The smell of the ocean was strong, and white gulls circled overhead. El felt his pulse quicken in response to their loud cries. It almost seemed that someone else was walking beside him, a step behind him on his left. He could not see her, but he could smell her perfume, and hear her light footsteps.

The Pacific was very blue. El stood on the sand and gazed at the dance of sunlight on the water. The ocean breeze lifted his hair and gently played with it. Foamy waves rolled up the shore, trying to nibble at his boots. He closed his eyes, and she was there.

She smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling with life and laughter. Their daughter stood next to her, grinning at the sea, wanting to splash in the waves. He ached to join them.

Carolina shook her head. He knew what she was saying. _It is not time yet._

She reached down and took her little girl's hand. Together they walked down the sand, toward the waves. Their daughter skipped happily, tugging at her mother to come faster, mama, faster.

They stepped into the water and faded. El opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to clear away the tears.

_How did I get here_? he wondered. He deliberately refrained from looking at his companion. At the moment, he needed to be alone with his thoughts.

All he had ever wanted to was to live in peace. To make his music. To live with the woman he loved. But everything he had found had been ripped away, and so he had tried to fashion a life with what remained. It would never be the same, though. Whatever happened now would forever be a pale second best.

He could live with that, he had long ago decided. Not that he had much choice. Still, he could accept second best. At least it was something.

So how then, did he come to be here? Standing on the shores of a great ocean with his mortal enemy.

_No_, El clarified._ He is not my enemy. Not anymore._

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he had spent too much time living in the past. Maybe it was time to let go. At some point a man had to stop letting the past rule his actions, and look to the future. He had to stop wanting to take revenge, and start living his life.

_But I can't do that. They won't let me_.

This was the last time, he vowed. The last revenge. The last days of dwelling in the past. When he had exposed the government's secrets, when he had forced them to admit that he was untouchable, then would he be free. He would have his _libertad_, the one thing he had told Carolina he wanted, all those years ago.

And then, maybe then, he could start living his life again.

On his left, Sands discreetly cleared his throat. His head was tilted back a little. "You know, I'm not sure what I think about all this. Standing here at the water's edge with you…I almost feel like one of us is expected to kiss the other."

El stared in shock. He knew it was a joke, but he was not at all amused by it. "Don't even think it," he growled.

Sands chuckled. "Oh believe me, I'm not. I just thought I should point out the romantic aspect to this scene."

For a moment, El hated him again.

Now that the peace had been spoiled, he supposed it was time to walk away. He glanced up the beach and spotted a wooden bench a few yards again. It was coated with sand and unshaded, but the ocean breeze kept the worst of the heat at bay. "Come on," he said. "There is a place to sit."

They walked up the beach. With footsteps muffled by the sand, it was harder for Sands to stay with him, and El had to verbally guide him most of the way. When they neared the bench, he said, "Just two more steps. You're almost there," and lowered himself onto his seat, hoping the sound would serve as the final marker for Sands.

Instead Sands walked right into the bench, smacking his shin loud enough to make El cringe. "Son of a bitch!" Sands shouted, leaning down to grab his leg.

El winced. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Jesus, El, you call yourself a guide? A dog could do better than you. Wait, dogs _do_ do better than you. That's it. I'm ditching you. I'm going to get myself a dog. Maybe I'll name it El, to remind me what an asshole you were." Still rubbing his shin, Sands sat down.

Now was the time to ask, El thought. Here, in this place neither of them had ever been. Before bitter words and angry actions forever erased the possibility of friendship between them.

"You know what I want to ask you," he said.

Sands nodded. "I know. I'm just surprised it took you this long."

El gazed out at the water. There were a few families on the beach, but not many. He rather liked it. With no one in his immediate sight, he could almost pretend they had the entire beach to themselves. "I wanted to give you some time."

"Why?" Sands asked. He leaned forward and waggled his left hand at El; the last two fingers were still taped together and healing. "Why would you even care?"

Even though they both knew the truth, El could not bring himself to say it out loud. He had to keep playing the game, continue pretending. So he said the only truth he could safely admit to. "What Archuleta did to you was wrong," he said. "What _we_ did was wrong."

Sands gave him a sick smile. "No, see, you're wrong. I did deserve it. You want to know why?"

_If it will lead to you telling me what I want to hear, you can tell me anything you like_, El thought. "Sure," he said.

"Because I killed Chiclet," Sands said.

El didn't know what to say. He agreed completely, but he could not say so. The rules of the game did not permit it. Plus it would be cruel, and he was tired of that kind of thing. He only wanted peace now.

"I had plenty of time to think in there," Sands said. He traced a pattern he could not see on the weatherbeaten surface of the bench. "When you're stuck in a cell all day by yourself, there isn't really anything else you can do. So I sat there and I thought about Chiclet. And after that, I thought about all of them, all the ones I had killed. Did you know I shot some waitress just because she spilled coffee on me?"

El had not known this. He tried to think of something supportive to say, but he could not. Supportive was the last thing he was feeling right now. Appalled anger was much more accurate.

"So yeah, I deserve what happened to me," Sands said. He spoke matter-of-factly.

A month ago El would have been certain of this. Now he was not so convinced. "I think maybe you only deserved some of it."

"And this?" Sands tapped the frame of his sunglasses. "Did I deserve this?"

"I don't know," El said. "I don't know what kind of man you were before the coup."

"Not the kind you would have wanted to know," Sands said with a humorless smile.

"But the kind a ten-year old boy wanted to know," El said.

Sands' smile vanished. "I suppose so." A hint of the old drawl covered his words, reminding El just how dangerous Sands had been – and could be, once again.

"Are you sorry for it?" El asked. "For what happened to Chiclet?"

"Am I sorry?" Sands repeated. "Christ, what kind of question is that?"

"One I want answered," El said. He needed to know. A brave young man had died because of Sands' arrogance. If Sands could not feel any remorse, there was no hope for him at all.

"Yeah, I'm sorry," Sands said. He drew that pattern on the wood one last time, then went still. "I know it was my fault. Hell, I knew it right away. That was why I went to Culiacán. To talk to his parents. Tell them what a good kid they had." His voice shifted down into the lazy tones that meant he was one step away from killing someone. "Then I was planning to look you up and kill you, but of course that never happened."

Sands smiled. "You want to hear something really funny? I was going to leave Mexico. I had decided. After I talked to Chiclet's family and blew your head off, I was getting out. I was done."

El was stunned. "You were done?"

"Oh yeah," Sands said, still with that bitter smile. "Time to live my own life, that kind of thing. Too bad you had to come along and fuck up all my plans. Again."

It was almost enough to make El laugh. All along they had both wanted the same thing. And he had never known it.

He frowned. "Are you telling me the truth? Or only what you think I want to hear?"

"Oh, it's true," Sands said. "I'm not much for lying anymore."

"Unless it suits your purpose," El said.

"Well, yeah."

Despite himself, El chuckled. They were alike in so many ways, he thought with some amazement.

He couldn't decide if that bothered him or not.

"So," Sands said brightly, "what happens after I tell you everything you want to know? Do you shoot me in the head? Or do you just get in your car and drive away?"

El said nothing. The last option was exactly what he had always planned on doing. But he suddenly realized it wasn't much of an option anymore.

He couldn't leave Sands alone. Not like this. Not now. The guilt he still felt would not let him. If he left, Sands wouldn't make it. Oh sure, he'd get by for a few weeks, scavenging what was left in the cupboards, skulking through the halls, too afraid to set foot outside the apartment. But then the landlord would come up again demanding the rent and when Sands didn't have it, he would be evicted and tossed out onto the street. Where he would be dead within a day.

The simple truth was that El couldn't leave. He was too involved now.

It pissed him off a little. When had his clever game become real? And why hadn't he realized what was happening?

"I know what you me want to tell you," Sands said. "What I don't know is why. Why you want to know my secrets. Why you want to know them badly enough to spring me from jail and allow this" – he held up his injured hand again – "to happen. So enlighten me, El."

"It was not my idea," he said, somehow needing to make that clear. "I was approached by a man one night. He said his name was Jorge Ramirez. He said he had left Mexico when you warned him, but that he was tired of living a lie. When he tried to return to his home, assassins attacked him. He knew he was still a target of the government. He believed you were the key, the one who could make it stop."

"I get it," Sands said, not without some smugness. "You thought I would spill my secrets so you could blackmail the government into erasing your name from its list. Then you could go on your merry little way."

"Are you saying that is not possible?" El asked. His heart was beating faster. It was not true, he thought furiously. It could not be true. He could not have done all this for nothing.

"Oh, it's possible," Sands drawled. He was grinning. "I just don't think you have any idea what's involved here."

"Then enlighten me," El said, throwing Sands' words back at him.

"Not until you answer my question," Sands said. "What happens after?"

Now was not the time to think about it. The game was over, anyway. He didn't even know if he had won or lost. Nor did he care. "I don't know," he said. "But I promise I will not kill you."

Sands seemed to consider this, then he nodded. "That's good enough for me." He took a deep breath.

"Okay. The following Secretaries of State are on cartel payroll…"


	16. Down Time

Chapter 16

Down Time

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Wish I did.

Author's Note: I should say here for the record that this story is by no means intended as a statement on the Mexican government. Everything I know about it has come from research on the Internet. This story is nothing but fiction. So with that out of the way, let's get going.

Many thanks to Melody for the last minute beta. You rock, girl!

* * *

Night fell, and they were still in Guayabo.

This was fine with Sands. He had no real desire to return to Culiacán, and the apartment where he had been tortured. Not to mention, there were definite benefits to sitting still and talking. Seated, he was equal to everyone around him. Walking, he was at a major disadvantage. So overall, he much preferred using his ass, not his feet.

They were at a little restaurant not far from the beach. Although they had finished dinner some time ago, the staff was obviously in no hurry to clear them out. Mariachis roamed through the room, and Sands would have given a good deal to know what El thought about that fact. He knew El missed being a mariachi. But he wondered if El knew yet that the simple life of a mariachi was forever denied him. He wondered if El was still kidding himself into thinking he could have that life back.

For his own sake, he very much hoped not.

El had been shocked to hear all the things wrong with the men currently in positions of power with Mexico's government. Men being paid by cartels to stay silent and look the other way. Men who freely partook of the cartels' products. Men who took their bribes in the form of money or land. On and on the list went, and Sands did not delude himself into thinking he knew even half of the government's secrets.

Still, what he knew was plenty damning. And in fact he thought it was enough to force the government to back off.

For a little while, at least.

He finished rolling another cigarette, lit it, and popped it in his mouth. "So?"

El huffed, but did not speak. Still thinking, then.

Fine. Sands inhaled deeply and let the smoke sit in his lungs for a while. He was content to sit here all night, if that's what El wanted. Part of him was even hoping El would suggest getting a motel room for the night, rather than make the drive back to Culiacán after too much sun and food and beer.

As reluctant as he was to admit it, today had been a good day. He had finally faced his fear of the dark, and he had emerged the victor. He had won. Today. Tomorrow it would be more of the same. And the day after that. And the day after that. For the rest of his life, he would fight the darkness. But he knew now that he was capable of beating it back. Not with anyone's help, but on his own. As nauseating as it was, El had gotten it right earlier today. He really could do this by himself.

He exhaled a thick plume of smoke. He still missed Chiclet, though.

"This is what I am thinking," El said suddenly, making him jump a little with surprise. Christ, he hated that. It had been one of the worst things about his imprisonment – never knowing when someone was going to speak, or sock him in the kidneys. Not being able to see what was coming really sucked.

"A phone call will not work with these men. Ramirez thought that we would only need to have you contact them, and they would listen to you. But I am thinking now that it will not be enough."

Sands was intrigued. "So you're thinking of something more drastic." He could dig it.

"I am thinking," El said, "that we need to pay these men a visit."

"Ah." He nodded. "Physical coercion plus blackmail. I like it."

"No," El said firmly. "We do not hurt anybody."

"I get it. We just stand there, looking very dour and ominous, is that? Well, I certainly remember you being good at that. Of course, you were mostly sitting, not standing." Sands couldn't help smirking. Damn, it felt good to be on top of things again. To have a plan. To know that he wasn't just a helpless blind man.

Silence stretched over their table. One of the mariachis ambled by, playing something festive. Sands resisted the urge to flip him off.

"I am surprised you remember me at all," El said quietly.

"Well, you _would_ be surprised," Sands shot back, in a tone that left no doubt as to his thoughts on El's mental capacity. "I was CIA, remember? Trained to pay attention to details and all that. You should really try it sometime." He blew smoke in El's general direction. After two weeks of dancing around each other and playing games, he was thrilled to finally be holding an adult conversation once again.

"And what do you remember of me?" El asked.

It had been a long time since he had thought about that day in the cantina. Mostly he didn't think about things like that. Remembering the days when he had still been in possession of his eyes was not exactly a picnic, especially the days leading up to the coup. His fantastic stupidity still made him cringe just to think about it.

But he tried now, remembering how hot it had been in the cantina, how pissed off Cucuy had been at him for being called a Mexi-can't. He remembered his first look at El. _Does it have a name?_ Overall his first impression was the one that had stayed with him through the years. Not much to look at, not much in the way of smarts, but a street sense and excellent survival skills. That was El Mariachi in a nutshell.

Or so he had thought. He knew differently now, of course. But back then he had only known the man for thirty seconds. And while his snap judgments were always accurate, they weren't always all-encompassing.

"I remember thinking that you were hiding behind your guitar," he said. "That if Cucuy hadn't let you hold it, you would have been tearing your napkin into little strips or drawing lines on the tablecloth with a fork. You couldn't sit still. You needed that guitar."

Chains jingled faintly as El moved in his chair, but he did not speak.

Sands warmed to his subject. "I thought you were putting on an act. You knew your reputation, and you figured you might as well be the broody killer everyone said you were. I don't think you looked at me for more than two seconds. You sounded sullen and fittingly tortured, but I saw the real pain you hide, when I showed you that photograph of General Marquez. I saw it in the way you suddenly gripped your guitar, like it was your lifeline, the only thing keeping your head above the raging water."

He grinned. "Want me to continue?"

El shifted again in his chair. "Can you?" There was a darker note to his voice now, turning the question into a thin threat.

"I knew you hated me," Sands said, ignoring the threat. "That was obvious. But I also knew you would do the job. Not because I asked you to, but because you wanted to. Because you wanted revenge. I knew that because you never once asked me about payment. I knew you were hoping that killing Marquez could lay your demons to rest and allow you to be at peace again. And I also knew that you would fail. That you would always fail. That you are doomed to forever wander, never knowing true peace or happiness." He took a chance. "I wonder if you know that yet."

El did not speak for a long moment. He was so still the chains did not jingle once. At last he said, "You sound very certain of yourself."

"I am," Sands said simply.

"Then why are you helping me? Why bother, if you are so certain that I will not be allowed to live my life in peace, like I want?"

He shrugged. "I don't have anything better to do."

But that wasn't entirely true. And one thing a year in prison had taught him was that there was a time for secrets, and a time to tell the truth. So he said, "And because, whether you want to believe it or not, _I_ still believe in keeping the balance. And right now that means helping you beat the bad guys."

More silence, longer this time. At a table across the room, two women burst into loud laughter. Another mariachi strolled past, this one playing something soft and tuneful. El said, "I believe you."

"Good," Sands said. "It's good to know we're on the same page."

Chains jangled. El's chair scraped. "We should be going," he said.

"So soon?" Sands quipped. He hoped his lack of enthusiasm wasn't obvious.

"Not to Culiacán," El said. "I have had too much to drink. We will stay here tonight."

Privately Sands doubted that – El sounded awfully sober to him – but he just nodded slowly, as if this was sage advice. "Okay."

He felt for the ashtray and stubbed out his cigarette. "So where _are_ we going?"

* * *

They stayed in a hotel on the beach. Two single beds. A bathroom with crappy water pressure. El snored half the night away. Sands lay flat on his back, limbs splayed out. A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, and cool ocean air came in through the open window.

This was all right, he thought. It would be even better if El would ever stop snoring, but even that he could forgive. There was something comforting about another presence in the room. After almost a year with no one's companionship but his own, he was eager to share space with another human being who wasn't there to hurt him.

How wonderfully ironic that the human being in question should be El Mariachi.

He chuckled to himself and kicked at the sheets, pushing them into an even smaller ball at the foot of the bed. Life sure had a funny way of surprising you, that was for sure.

* * *

In the morning they went back to the open-air market. El bought some tamales and they ate those while walking. Sands was still not very comfortable with moving around much, and he felt his mood plunge as he tramped through the plaza, straining to distinguish El's footsteps from everyone else's. More than once he realized that if it weren't for the chains on the mariachi's outfit, it would be terribly easy to lose El altogether.

He wasn't too surprised when they ended up in front of the guitar vendor. Then of course El had to try every damn one of them, playing the same little bit of music, that annoying song his brother the drug lord had taught him. And then, after the sixtieth run-through of the song, El did manage to surprise him. "Do you play?"

He shook his head, using the gesture to cover his surprise. "Blind man, remember?"

"What about before?"

"No," he said. "Never did play guitar. But I was a mean tuba player in high school band."

He could only imagine the look El gave him after that one.

"Do you want to learn?" El asked.

For a moment he was too shocked to reply. Then a thousand responses ran through his head, each one more cutting and angry than the one that had come before it.

"I could teach you," El offered. "But you would have to be willing to learn. Otherwise, there wouldn't be any point to it."

"You seem to forget, I have no long-term plans to stay in Mexico," he said. It sounded lame, making him annoyed with himself. Why hadn't he thrown something caustic and witty in El's face?

"I have no idea how long it will take for the government to understand how serious we are," El said. "It could take some time. Until then, I need something to occupy my time. I think you do, too."

"So now we can both hide behind guitars?" There. It wasn't as witty as his usual rejoinders but it would suffice.

"I love to make music," El said. He coaxed a few notes from the guitar he was currently holding. "I always have. I feel more complete when I am around a guitar." A complex waterfall of sound fell from the strings. "Maybe you will find that is true for you, as well."

"You know, I really doubt it," Sands said. "But never let it be said that I turned away from a challenge. All right, El. You're on. Let's see if you can teach the blind man to play the guitar." He smirked. "Should we make this more interesting?"

"No bets," El said. "I am not interested in money."

He shrugged. "Your loss."

El spoke to the vendor. "This one. And that one there. The six-string."

Sands poked El in the arm. "Did I mention I can't read music?"

* * *

When they returned to the apartment in Culiacán, the first thing El did was call Jorge Ramirez.

The first thing Sands did was pour himself a drink. A very stiff one.

He stood with his back to the counter, leaning on it, hoping he looked casual, like he didn't give a shit about anything. When El walked into the kitchen, he took a sip of his drink, even though the only liquid left in the glass was watery and disgusting. "So, what did Jorge have to say?"

"He wanted to come with us," El said.

"I hope you made him realize that that would be a very bad idea," Sands said. He very much did not want Ramirez to return to Culiacán. And he _really_ had no desire to hang out with Señor "Let's Wiggle That Finger One More Time" Archuleta again.

"He understands," El said. "Although he is not happy about it."

"Well, him being happy isn't a requirement," Sands snapped. "Him staying alive, is."

"I find it interesting that you care so much about him," El said. He tried hard to sound as if he wasn't all that curious, but Sands was not fooled.

"He saved my life," he said flatly. "Him and Chiclet. I owe him." Ramirez had been the key to everything, those first few days after the coup. Sands could not remember those days, but he knew a lot about them anyway. Ramirez could have handed him over to the cartel, or the police, or alerted the CIA or the FBI. Or he might have done nothing, and simply let Sands die. But he had not done any of those things. For that, Sands owed him, and owed him big.

"What about me?" El asked, still in that trying-too-hard tone of voice. "I saved your life at Juan Garcia's villa. Without me you would have been gunned down. Do you owe me, as well?"

_Yes,_ Sands thought,_ but not for that_. He set his glass down carefully, making sure it was not near the edge of the counter where he might accidentally knock it to the floor.

He owed El, all right. Not for getting him out of prison, because that hadn't been El's idea and anyway he didn't know just how involved El had been in the whole plan. No, he owed El for what had come after. For the past two weeks. For making him remember that there was more to the world than fear and darkness and four walls. For playing the game long after it had stopped being a game, and letting him fool himself – for a while – into believing that El really was being kind because El cared.

He owed El big time. But was he going to tell El that?

Hell no.

He put on his most innocent smirk. "I'll let you know," he said.

* * *

That night El noodled around on his new guitar. He was a hell of a lot better than the mariachis who had wandered around the restaurant in Guayabo. In fact, Sands thought he was actually pretty good, although of course he did not say as much.

He didn't say anything at all, in fact. He had learned the value of silence. He had learned it well. The government men who had come to the prison to teach him had done a very good job.

Of course the government had known. He suspected El Presidente had discovered his whereabouts within six hours of his arrest. But just like his old government, his new one had let him twist too. Apparently three years of mostly-loyal service, first to El's favorite presidente, then to the new one, meant absolutely nothing.

They hadn't had the courage to kill him, though. Because he was American, and former CIA, and because they weren't sure just how much he knew, and what repercussions his untimely death would have for them. So instead two men had arrived in his cell one day. There had been a very polite and dignified conversation about the importance of staying silent and keeping secrets, and then a very rude and undignified beating that left him retching on the floor, and then the two men had gone away. And the day after _that_, the guards had suddenly become very interested in finding ways to make his stay in prison a living hell.

The wonderfully funny part was that there were no secret plans, no bold announcements to be made upon his death. There were documents of course, in several safe deposit boxes scattered throughout the country, all under different names, but a truly determined government could rationalize most of those. And scandals were only interesting if one was alive to experience them. He had no real desire to topple the Mexican government if doing so meant being dead and unable to enjoy the results.

So he kept his mouth shut. In a way, he almost learned more about people through silence than through talking. Most people couldn't handle prolonged silence. They got nervous or guilty or worried. They started talking to fill the silence, and the longer it lasted, the more they spilled their guts.

El was different, though. El could cope with silence. Sitting there, hour after hour with nothing said between them, he was poignantly reminded of the years he had spent with Chiclet. The kid had always known when it was safe to talk. Apparently El Mariachi was the same way.

"Are you ready to begin learning?" El asked.

The question startled him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Christ, he hated that. Why couldn't El clear his throat first or something, like most civilized people did?

He shrugged. "Sure." He didn't have anything else better to do tonight.

Guitar strings twanged. Chains jingled. Something thumped on the carpet. El came near, then the couch dipped as he sat next to Sands. "Have you ever held a guitar?"

Just two seconds in, and he already didn't like this lesson. "No. And by the way, if you continue talking to me like I'm five years old, I will break that guitar over your thick head."

El paused. "Okay," he said, in his normal voice.

He held up his left hand. "Not going to be using this one just yet."

"Not yet," El agreed. "You need to learn the guitar itself, first. Know it, then you can begin to make music."

_Oh brother._ He pursed his lips, wishing he had eyes to roll. "Just give me the damn thing."

El placed the guitar in his lap. He was surprised at first by how little it weighed; he had expected it to be heavier.

"Tuners." El took his right hand and placed it on the little metal knobs sticking out at the top.

El moved his fingers to the flat piece that the tuners were screwed into. "Head."

And so it went. On down to "bridge." It was kind of nice, in a really weird way. The last time he had been this close to someone, they had been holding him down so someone else could cut on him. Guitar lessons with El were a nice change of pace.

"When do we leave?" he asked.

El caught his breath, as though he had nearly blurted out something and only stopped himself at the last minute. After a few moments he said, "Next week. We will need time to plan, and get supplies and maps."

Sands nodded. "You don't need maps," he said. He tapped his temple. "Everything you need is up here."

"We need maps," El said firmly.

Sands shrugged. "Whatever you say."

He had his answer anyway. A week. Seven more days of freedom, to do whatever he wanted.

He smiled. Life was good.


	17. Seven Days

Chapter 17

Seven Days

Disclaimer: I wish they were mine, but since I'm not Robert Rodriguez, they're not.

Author's Note: Tired of the slow stuff? Look for the action to resume again next chapter. Also, there is one more chapter after this, and then an epilogue. I will be posting them together, so everyone can read the ending all in one go. Look for it to be posted before the weekend!

* * *

On the first day, Sands slept late. He woke up with a headache, and in a bad mood. Last night he had felt like he had been given the gift of a week. This morning he resented every hour that stood between him and his goal. Ever day he had to wait was just one more day he had to spend in Mexico.

He didn't have to stay here, he knew. He could find a way to get his ass out of the country, just like he had always planned. But the logistics of such a move were daunting, and even the thought of trying to make it to the local bus station on his own made his heart start to race.

Besides, he really did owe El. After everything El had done for him, it was time to return the favor. That meant doing what he could to give El that dream life of peace the mariachi had always wanted.

And on the other hand, he wouldn't mind putting the screws to the government. He couldn't touch the CIA of course, so the Mexican government would have to do. And he owed them, too. For letting him rot in jail for a year. For thinking they could toss him in a cell and forget about him. For underestimating him.

He smiled grimly as he rose from bed. In a way he couldn't blame them. He had made it easy for them to think he wasn't a threat. He hadn't intended it to happen, but it had, and now he meant to make use of that fact.

He could practically hear them, El Presidente's two closest advisors. One would be urging the president to watch the borders and the port cities, expecting Sands to flee. The other would be telling the president that there were men trained to handle this kind of thing, to send them in and finish this sorry bit of business now, before things got too far out of hand.

El Presidente himself, wimp that he was, would order both solutions to be carried out. Which meant Culiacán would soon be crawling with government spies and assassins. If they weren't already here, that was.

He would have to warn El. Maybe now wasn't the best time to think about leaving the city. Maybe they should just lay low for a while and let the shitstorm pass them by. Sooner or later the men looking for him would start to whisper among themselves and say he wasn't here, that he hadn't been here for a long time, and speaking of time, wasn't it high time they abandoned this useless job?

Given enough time, that was exactly what would happen, and he knew it. Unfortunately, time was not on their side. There was no way El Mariachi would consent to wait even longer to start living his own life. And in truth, Sands had to admit waiting around wasn't his strong suit, either.

It was time to shit or get off the pot. He could dig it.

* * *

On the second day Sands thought about Chiclet.

He lay on his back on the couch, left arm over his head, right arm dangling off the cushions. An ashtray was on the floor within reach, but he was not smoking.

He really missed Chiclet. It was surprising, how deep the hurt was even after a year. He would have thought he would be done grieving by now. It was kind of annoying to find out otherwise.

Had the situation been different, he would have liked to follow through on his original plan and talk to Chiclet's family. But that was out of the question. Not with government spooks out there. So instead he turned to the only other person who might understand.

"Did you know Chiclet could burp the alphabet?" One of the boy's more obscure talents, to be sure, but one that had never failed to end with both of them giggling with laughter. "And your alphabet's got four more letters than mine. That's pretty impressive."

"What else could he do?" El's voice came from the other end of the room, near the kitchen. He wondered what El was up to.

Sands did not respond right away. He was remembering Chiclet's bright laughter, the way the bedsprings would squeak as the kid rolled around laughing at something stupid on the TV. Chiclet had a good sense humor, and he loved pulling pranks on people just to watch their reaction. He had lots of stories about his brothers and the stuff they pulled, and he was good at bringing a story to life so you felt like you were right there with him.

Or rather, he had been good at it. Chiclet was not going to tell any more stories. Not ever again.

"What did he look like?" Sands asked. He remembered kneeling on the floor, sobbing brokenly, hating himself for not even knowing what Chiclet had looked like at the end. "Was he a good-looking kid?"

After a pause, El said, "Not yet. But he would be one day. You could see it."

Sands appreciated the honesty. "I only saw him once," he said.

"Before the coup," El said.

Sands let this blatantly obvious statement slide past unremarked. "He tried to sell me some bubble gum. That's why I called him Chiclet."

He cocked his head to one side. "Say, El, what's your name?"

El made a wheezy sound that was probably meant as laughter. "You don't know?"

"Would I be asking if I knew?" Sands retorted.

"I do not know your name, either," El pointed out.

"Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. Now you know. So spill it."

El told him his name.

Sands nodded. "Now we're even."

El said nothing. This too Sands appreciated. He liked the fact that El wasn't one of those people who felt compelled to fill every silence with inane chatter.

"Do you want to know what I look like now?" El asked.

The question surprised him. "Why? Have you grown up, too?"

El chuckled, the laugh sounding a bit more genuine this time. "Perhaps. But I am not the same man you met four years ago."

"Okay." He could stand to update his mental image of El Mariachi.

El said, "I am four years older than you remember."

"Way to go, El. We all are, thanks very much." Sands was annoyed now that he had risen to the bait.

"I found a gray hair last month," El said. "There are new lines around my eyes. I do not wear the bracer on my left hand." He hesitated. "I have begun to talk to God again."

"Good for you," Sands said. "Tell him I said hi."

"Are you a religious man?"

"No. Never was."

"Why not?"

Sands shrugged. "I just never was." He supposed he hadn't liked the idea of there being someone out there with all the knowledge, all the power, pulling all the strings. That kind of position was reserved for himself.

"What about Chiclet?" El asked.

"Did he believe in God? I don't know. We never talked about it." He wondered now what the boy had believed. Chiclet had been a good person at heart, but Sands didn't know how much of that came from religion and how much came from within.

"I am surprised," El said mildly. "Somehow I pictured him confiding in you. Sharing all his secrets."

Sands shook his head. "It wasn't like that at all."

"I see," El said.

He thought of the long silences, the hours when he had been content merely to know Chiclet was nearby, that he was not alone in the dark. "No," he said. "You really don't."

* * *

On the third day Sands helped El put together a recipe El got off the TV. Some stupid cooking show where the chef liked to pound the counter a lot. But the food sounded good, and El announced he was willing to try.

That afternoon El went to the market to buy the ingredients. Sands helpfully wiped down the countertops, then took a nap. He had been good in the kitchen once, but it was awfully hard to cook when you couldn't see the difference between half a cup and two-thirds of a cup.

They hadn't done too badly, he had to admit later. El had done most of the work, while he had stood in the corner and directed. He had never been one to follow directions to the letter, and he had insisted El do the same. It was the creative variations to a recipe that made it interesting. He had tried explaining this to El, but even though El pretended to get it, he thought El was still a follow-the-directions man at heart.

The vegetables were a little overcooked, but everything else came out great. He saluted El with his beer bottle. "Whaddaya think, El? Should we start our own cooking show?"

El chuckled wryly. "I think not."

"Ah well." Sands took a long swig from his beer. Who cared? The food still tasted good.

* * *

On the fourth day Sands did not speak at all. He dreamed of bitter darkness, only to wake to a reality that was indistinguishable from the dream. He felt sour and mean, and he was afraid to move around too much, in case he walked into a wall or someone's fist. He did not want to spend any more time with El Mariachi. He missed Chiclet. He missed his eyes. He wanted them back. He wanted his life back.

Dinner was a sullen affair, consisting of leftovers from yesterday's feast. He ate very little, having no appetite. After trying once or twice to coax him into conversation, El stopped trying. Perversely, El's acceptance only made his mood even blacker. He felt like a fight. He wanted El to suggest another guitar lesson so he could take up the instrument and beat El over the head with it.

But El did not offer, so Sands had to content himself with imaginary violence that night.

* * *

On the fifth day, they laid their plans. They would have to strike hard, and fast. Whoever they confronted first would no doubt warn the others, and that was not allowed. Their first victim – and indeed all of them – would have to learn the value of silence.

Sands laughed bitterly. He knew plenty of ways to make a man stay silent. Unfortunately, they did not have a year and a room full of jackbooted guards. In each case, they would have no more than half an hour to speak to their target before they would have to leave.

They planned to hit six men. Six houses, each in the wealthiest district in Mexico City. Six Secretaries of State, each man ruling a different department. Six men, each a criminal in his own way.

"How is it that you know these things?" El asked him.

"I made it my business to know," Sands said. He still didn't feel like talking, but he didn't have much choice today. "And these guys, they _like_ their lifestyle, El. They like being government ministers. They show off. So there I am, walking my new beat, loving my new job. I make sure I get invited to a fancy dinner one night. I stroll the grounds with my faithful young guide and friend at my side, and by the time the evening winds down, I know all their security measures and how to bypass them." He blew a cloud of smoke in El's direction. "Very simple, really."

"Simple," El said. It was kind of an annoying habit, really, the way the mariachi would repeat one word out of the dozens you had just said.

"Simple." Or not. "Of course, I don't have any security codes. I couldn't figure those out just from Chiclet's descriptions." He smirked.

"We do not need codes," El said.

"Sure." He nodded. "Smash and grab. I get it."

"We will not be in each house long enough for security alarms to bother us," El said. He sounded very confident. "What we require will not take that long."

That much was true. Taken off guard in the middle of the night, a gun shoved in their faces, quiet threats whispered in their ear…most of these men would fold fast. He expected only one or two to resist, but it would be a token resistance only. They could do nothing until the following morning, when they had the safety of their numbers to back them up. Alone in their beds, they were easy prey.

"I do not like this one, the Secretary for Agriculture. He is married."

"Yeah, but only six months of the year. She spends the winters in Spain."

El made a non-committal noise, but Sands knew he was pleased. El was a soft touch. He wouldn't harm any women or children if he could help it.

Afterward, when the threats had been made and the noses had been bloodied, they would retreat to a hideout in Acapulco. They could be there by sunrise if all went well, and if they didn't go well, then things like a hideout wouldn't matter.

He would make a few phone calls from Acapulco, to check on the progress of things. "I know someone," he said. "He put me in touch with Nicolas, the one who betrayed your Presidente. As far as I know, he's still there. Guys like him will always be there." He didn't tell El his contact's name, though. He had to keep _some_ secrets, after all.

"Are you sure it is safe?" El asked again. By Sands' count, it was the fourth time El had asked. Each time, he imagined the mariachi standing there with a furrowed brow and an unhappy squint.

"As sure as I can be," he said, "seeing as how I've spent the last year locked away from the rest of the world."

He imagined El wincing. Not because El felt guilty for having him put in prison, but because it made him feel better to pretend that El felt guilty.

"Besides," he added, "it's on the beach. Wouldn't you like to work on your tan? Sip piña coladas and make googly eyes at the pretty _touristas_?"

"No," El said gruffly.

Sands shrugged. "Your loss." After all, he wasn't about to get laid any time soon. It would be nice if one of them did. Maybe then El wouldn't be so fricking uptight all the time.

"How long before they call?" El asked. He was pacing now, back jingle and forth jangle, back jangle and forth jingle. Yesterday the incessant noise would have made Sands fly into a homicidal rage. Today he found it strangely soothing.

"A day, two at most. They'll have to huddle together first and reassure themselves that they aren't about to be shot in the head from a distance when they're getting into their cars. Then they'll tell themselves that it's the best thing, that we aren't really that much of a threat anyway, that they'll be watching us, that _we_ are the ones in danger, not them. And when they've made themselves feel better, they'll go to El Presidente and tell him that they think he should call off the surveillance and cancel the plan to balance us out of the equation. He'll be shocked at first and demand to know why they have changed their minds, but they'll bluster and get defensive and finally, because he has a two o'clock meeting he's already late for, he'll nod and say yes and that will be that."

"And then they will call," El prompted.

"They'll call the number we give them. They'll say, 'Okay, we have a deal. You're free to go on about your business.' We'll remind them of the price they'll pay should they renege. And then we hang up, toss the cell phone into the ocean, and leave Acapulco. Although it might be nice to get rip-roaring drunk first." He grinned.

El did not seem to share his positive outlook. "How can we be sure they will do what they say?"

"You can't," Sands said. He was starting to lose his patience with El. "That's the way it goes, El. You don't win. But they don't win, either."

"Keeping the balance," El murmured.

"Exactly." Sands sat back in his chair. Maybe there _was_ hope for El. "That's what I do, after all."

* * *

On the sixth day he fell asleep on the couch and dreamed the same old dream, the one where he was drawn helplessly toward that shadowed doorway and the darkness that lurked beyond. He woke up flailing and fell off the couch.

For a moment he simply lay on the floor, breathing hard as though he had just run a marathon. If the couch had been high enough off the floor, he would have scuttled beneath it, curled up, and wished himself dead. Instead he had to content himself with sprawling where he had landed and quietly whimpering.

Boots approached. Chains jingled. "What happened?" El's voice trailed off even as he asked the question. "Oh."

Sands just lay there. "I think the couch shrank."

El chuffed with amusement. "Or maybe your ass is growing."

"You been looking at my ass?" It was hard to muster the right amount of sarcasm, but he managed.

"I am not that desperate," El said dryly.

"I'm telling you, El, there's tons of pretty ladies on the beaches of Acapulco. I bet some of them even like broody mariachis."

El snorted, then walked off.

Sands sat up and readjusted his sunglasses. They weren't the best way to protect his sockets, but they were so much cooler than eye patches. He wasn't really into the whole pirate look.

He sighed and pulled himself to his feet. Maybe his ass really was growing. God knew he had lost enough weight in jail; the meals there made McDonald's seem like a gourmet feast. And with El cooking every night, he actually had an interest in food again.

Which reminded him, it was almost time for lunch.

* * *

On the seventh day, Sands learned to play a song.

Granted, it wasn't a very complicated song. But he had always liked it, and it was actually kind of amazing to hear "Brown-Eyed Girl" coming from his own fingers.

"Now you are a mariachi, too," El said with amused satisfaction.

"Do I get an outfit?" Sands quipped. "Or maybe just part of one, since I only know one song. Can I have the jacket?"

"You already have my cummerbund," El reminded him.

"Crap," Sands sighed. "Red isn't my color."

El chuckled.

That wasn't unusual anymore, Sands thought with interest as he experimented with a chord. El seemed to find many things amusing these days.

Then again, so did he. It was amazing how much more fun life was when he had someone to share it with. He would never be able to call El Mariachi a friend, he supposed, but certainly El was not his enemy anymore.

He frowned. Just what exactly did that make El?

"How are your fingers?" El asked.

He flexed them. "Okay." In truth they hurt like a son of a bitch, but he wasn't going to say that out loud. Just because he wasn't really ready to play the guitar didn't mean he was going to do the expected thing. Nor was he going to let the pain stop him from playing a song with only three chords in it.

"Why did you just ask me that?" he demanded suddenly. It was an un-El-like question. It was a question El would have asked two weeks ago, when they had both been playing at their games. Back when El had pretended to be kind and he had pretended not to notice the lie.

Chains lightly moved as El shrugged. "There is no point in any more lessons if you aren't ready."

"Why do you care?" he persisted. "After tomorrow there aren't going to be any more lessons. I'm leaving the country, remember? And you're going back to wherever it is you came from, Guadalajara or Guitar Town or Mariachiville. So what difference does it make if my fingers hurt or not?"

El was silent for a long time. Then he said, "I don't know. But it does make a difference."

Sands bit his lip so he wouldn't say anything stupid. He just nodded, making sure his head was down enough so his hair fell forward and hid his face.

He didn't want El to see his expression just then.


	18. All or Nothing

Chapter 18

All or Nothing

Disclaimer: El and Sands belong to Robert Rodriguez. I'm only borrowing them for my own twisted purposes. I'll put them back when I'm done. I promise.

Author's Note: Here it is, the last chapter. Epilogue follows, with some more notes from me.

* * *

_In my wildest dreams, I never imagined I would be standing here doing this_, El thought.

"Here" was the lushly appointed bedroom of the Secretary of Tourism. "This" was holding a gun on a very terrified old man.

It was all very unreal. A security alarm blared in the background. Someone was pounding on the door and demanding to be let in. The Secretary cowered in his bed, his eyes very wide. A bedside table lamp was turned on, casting a dim pool of light on the Secretary, while leaving El in shadow.

Sands was talking.

Or rather, Sands was threatening. In a very calm, rational voice. That was what made him terrifying. El watched him and El listened to him, and El remembered why he had wanted to kill Sands within ten seconds of first meeting him.

He had forgotten how dangerous Sands was.

The Secretary of Tourism was not allowed to forget. The old man bobbed his head and squawked out an answer whenever Sands paused. His eyes darted back and forth between the dark sunglasses on Sands' face, and the light reflecting off the gun in El's hand.

"It was always crazy, I told him so!" the Secretary of Tourism babbled. "He should never have gone ahead with it!"

Sands smiled. "I'm sure you did all you could," he said soothingly. From his calm demeanor, you would never have guessed that the world around him was splintering into chaos.

When he heard the sympathy in Sands' voice, the old man blanched.

It was time to go. The police would arrive soon, and the locked door would not keep out a truly determined man for long. El cleared his throat.

Sands understood. "Well, we'll be off now." He gave the Secretary another chummy smile. "Just ask yourself. How much do you enjoy this life? And how long do you think you could survive out there on the street? How long before you woke up one night to see _this_ staring back at you for real?" He pointed to El and smirked.

The Secretary looked at El, swallowing hard, as if he was trying not to vomit. "I'll tell him," he promised eagerly. "First thing in the morning!"

"I know you will," Sands said.

* * *

And that was only the first target.

To El's surprise – wary at first, then growing steadily more relieved – it was all very easy. Although he hated to admit it, he was nervous. Words were not his weapons. Even with a gun in his hand, he still felt too naked. Too vulnerable. And by nature, El did not like easy. Easy made him suspicious. But this time, easy turned out to be all right.

As he had promised, Sands remembered everything, from the location of their target's house, to the layout of the grounds, to how many men stood in the gatehouse at the end of each driveway. El was amazed by the depth of his knowledge, and even more impressed when he remembered that Sands had learned all these things _after_ losing his sight.

And Sands did all the talking. Security alarms rang and dogs barked and footsteps pounded past the windows, but Sands ignored it all. He spoke quietly, forcing his victims to actively pay attention. His threats were delivered calmly, with no shouting or wild gesturing.

In contrast, El's role was simple. He only had to stand behind Sands and look ominous. He put on his best glower and never once let the barrel of the gun waver from his target's forehead. Their chosen target always just stared at him, eyes wide with fright. El stared back, doing his best to look like a cold-blooded killer who actually enjoyed shooting old men in the face.

One of them – perhaps the Secretary of Health, but he couldn't be sure – went for a gun when he discovered them in his bedroom. El fired a single shot into his pillow, and the old man froze in terror, and after that it went down just like all the others. He was the only one who even tried to fight back, though. All the others just sat there and listened.

Not that Sands gave them much choice.

El was not unaware of the irony of his situation. The things he had once hated the most about Sands were the very traits he needed right now. The man who had once been a danger to Mexico was on the loose once again, and this time, El encouraged him every step of the way. They needed Sands' talent for manipulation and deceit, and his ability to threaten with only a soft word.

In between targets, they talked quietly of what had happened during the previous confrontation. Sands listened as El described the encounter, and the next time, he incorporated new material based on what El had said. The Secretary of Tourism was first on their list, and he had been one very scared man. By the time they reached their final target, Sands had his speech down so well that El was surprised the Secretary of Agriculture didn't piss himself.

_Will it work_? That was what he wanted to ask as he drove south, toward Acapulco. The question haunted him. He longed to ask Sands, but he was afraid of the answer. Afraid that even after everything they had done tonight, it would still not be enough.

_Please_, he thought, praying to the God he had only recently rediscovered, _please let this work_.

"You know, El." Sands' voice startled him out of his thoughts, making him jump a little. "If this doesn't work out, you and I should consider a career in bank robbery."

Last year even the very thought of spending more time with Sands would have filled El with disgust. Now he just snorted in amusement. "Only if I don't have to wear a ski mask."

Sands laughed. "Deal."

* * *

At noon, Sands made a call.

The hotel in Acapulco was very swanky, making El feel distinctly nervous. He stood out in places like this. Yet Sands seemed completely at home, despite the strangeness of his surroundings. El could not decide if that was because he felt secure again after last night's events, or if the very unfamiliarity of the place gave him confidence.

As part of its amenities, the hotel had a courtesy phone for its patrons, set in a secluded niche off the lobby that provided a reasonable amount of privacy. El stood directly beside Sands, so close their shoulders were touching. Sands held the phone so they could both hear the man on the other end.

"_Hola!_" Sands sang cheerfully. "_Como 'stas?_"

"Sands!" The man on the other end was practically screaming. "Is that you?"

"None other," Sands said.

"What in the hell is going on?" the man demanded.

"I was hoping you could tell me," Sands said.

The man on the other end was silent for a while. El liked that. Silence meant that things were happening in the background. Silence meant he was trying to decide what to say, how much he could get away with telling Sands, and how much he could keep to himself.

Sands waited patiently. He was very still. El shifted a little, leaning a bit closer to the phone while trying to ease his shoulder off Sands'. The close contact did not bother him, but he supposed Sands might not like it.

"They're scared," Sands' contact finally said. "Scared shitless. What did you do to them?"

"That's not the right question," Sands said.

"Okay, what did you _say_ to them?" the man asked.

"Now you're on the right track."

"Son of a bitch," the man breathed in admiration. "You told them to back off, didn't you? You told them, and they're actually _doing it_."

A flurry of hope stirred in El's chest. It was working! Instinctively he turned his head to the left, intending to catch Sands' eye and share a conspiratorial smile. But Sands of course was not looking in his direction. And when he turned his head, all he saw was the dark shadow of an empty eyesocket behind opaque sunglasses.

"Well, now, that's good to hear," Sands drawled. "If that's the truth."

Sands' contact uttered a faint laugh. "You know I wouldn't lie to you."

"I know you used to know you couldn't," Sands admitted. "But it's been a while."

"Hey, I haven't forgotten!" the man insisted. "I know where we stand. But you know, since it's been so long, you might want to 'forget' a few things, too."

Sands shrugged, the movement causing El's shoulder to rise and fall as well. "I could," he agreed. "And it _is _kind of hard for me to remember just where I stored those photos."

The man on the other end sighed with relief. "Good, okay. Thank you. Listen, I have to go, they're calling an emergency meeting. Will you call back?"

"I don't think I need to," Sands said. "You enjoy your meeting." He hung up the phone, almost clocking El in the chin with it.

El stood back, putting some space between them once again. "It's working," he said.

Sands turned around to face him. "So it would seem." He smiled. "Want to go sit on the beach and get drunk?"

El thought that sounded just fine.

* * *

When the cell phone rang, they both jumped. Then El realized it was not the new phone, the one he had just purchased a year-long contract for. It was the old phone.

They were on the beach, at an outdoor cantina situated right on the sand. Behind them, American girls giggled and screamed with laughter, and tinny music came through the speakers. When he and Sands had walked past the bar, some of the girls had eyed him with frank appreciation – while others had smiled suggestively at Sands. El had quickly moved on through, out to the tables on the sand.

He had lost track of how long they had been sitting here. Long enough for them to accumulate a few empty glasses on the wicker table between their lounge chairs. Long enough to start to feel the first stirrings of panic. Now he had to force his racing heart to slow down so he could focus on what Ramirez was saying.

"Where are you?" he asked.

The former FBI agent sighed. "I am in Culiácan. And I see you are not."

El did not say anything. He had never been one to state the obvious.

"When did you leave?" Ramirez asked.

"Recently," El said. He supposed the state of the apartment would say it all. They had thrown out all the food that might spoil, and the rent was paid up for two months. El had left one light on in the front window, but unplugged the others. He wondered when Ramirez had arrived, and by how narrow a margin they had missed each other.

"Is Sands with you?"

"Yes," El said. He glanced to his left. Sands lounged in his beach chair like a man without a care in the world. His head was tilted back so he could get the sun on his face. The drink in his hand was pearled with moisture, and a ring of condensation marred the surface of the tabletop beside him.

"Archuleta went back to Texas," Ramirez said.

"Back to San Antonio," El said, keeping one eye on Sands. "Why?"

"This was never my intention," Ramirez said. "What happened… That was not me. I had hoped it was not my friend. I was wrong."

El did not reply right away. He was watching Sands, who had not moved, but who nonetheless looked like a sleek jungle cat ready to pounce. "I am sorry you lost your friend," he said carefully.

"He isn't Danny," Ramirez said. "That was my mistake. Thinking that he was the same as his brother."

El nodded. He knew firsthand that it was not always a good thing to be compared to your brother. More than once he had wondered if Cesar would have turned out differently had their father not constantly compared them, and always found Cesar lacking.

"Were you followed?" El asked.

"No." Ramirez's voice grew distant and El heard the sound of a bottle being opened. "There is no government presence in Culiácan at all, that I can see."

Despite himself, El smiled. "Good."

"You did it," Ramirez said. It was not a question.

"We did it," El said, with another glance at Sands. Sands saluted him with his drink, but did not say anything.

"Thank Christ," Ramirez breathed.

"Keep one eye open at night," El warned. "They may not give in without a fight."

Ramirez snorted. "They are welcome to try." Even over the phone, El could hear the grim smile in his voice.

It was a shame he would never see the man again. "Take care," he said.

"Same to you," Ramirez said.

El hung up.

* * *

Two hours later, just as he was beginning to think the call would never come, the cell phone rang. The new one.

Sands had programmed the ringtone to play "La Cucaracha." El gave him a quick glare as he flipped the phone open. He had no idea when Sands had done that, or even how he had managed, but in his present state of mind, he had no time for silly games.

"Here. Give it to me." Sands snapped his hand in El's direction.

For a moment El thought about refusing, and answering the call himself. Then he realized he had no idea what to say to whoever was on the other end. He gave the phone to Sands.

"Who is this?" Sands said by way of greeting.

El glanced about at the tourists on the beach. It seemed that everyone must know what was happening here; everyone must look at him and know he was a wanted man. His palms grew slick with sweat, and he had to force himself to take a deep breath and remain calm.

Beside him, Sands broke into a wide grin. "Diego! How the hell are you?"

El could almost see the man on the other end cringe. And then he realized that Sands had just spoken the contact's name. Nor had it been an accident. He had wanted El to hear it, to know just who to reach within the government, should things go badly.

Sands listened to what Diego had to say. Occasionally he offered a light, "Mmm-hmm." He did not speak. El fought the urge to lean in close so he could hear, like he had done in the hotel, and balled his sweaty hands into fists.

The other man seemed to talk forever. Just when El thought he could not stand it for one more second, Sands stirred.

"Well," Sands drawled, "I think we have an arrangement here."

El let out his breath so hard his shoulders sagged. His chin dropped onto his chest. He felt weak with relief. They had done it!

"Just remember," Sands said, "should any of us ever get so much as a hint that we're being followed, the deal is forfeit. And then, my dear Diego, all bets are off." The cold promise in his voice reminded El sharply of the one time he had sat across from Sands and been able to look the man in the eye.

Sands flipped the phone closed. He turned toward El. "It's done," he said.

* * *

They drank their dinner that night. El was aware that he was pleasantly intoxicated, but it hardly seemed to matter. Why should he care? Today he had won his freedom.

He still could scarcely believe it. He had won. It was over. It seemed unreal. He remembered throwing the cell phone into the ocean, to the accompaniment of Sands' laughter, but he still expected to hear it ring. To hear a man on the other end speaking in low tones. To look up and see the barrel of a gun aimed at his forehead.

The cynical part of his mind – the part that had so far resisted the lure of succumbing to alcohol's warm embrace – said that it wasn't really over. That part of his mind reminded him that Sands had spoken the truth when he had said they would never really win. But for once El was determined to ignore that voice. Just this one time, he would pretend that things were truly going to work out all right, that he had truly won, that he was truly free.

Tomorrow he would have to be cold and hard and practical again. Tonight, he was going to celebrate.

The sun was setting, turning the ocean into molten gold. El drained his glass and set it on the table with the others. A waiter would come by eventually and remove the empties and bring him a new drink. A few hours ago he had thought about food, but then Sands had suggested a toast, and the waiter had brought them each several shots, and after that, thoughts of food had completely fled his mind.

He wondered where he would go first. Maybe he would visit his old friends in Guitar Town. Or hang out with Lorenzo and Fideo and drink all their tequila as a way of repaying them for their help. Or spend a night in vigil over Carolina's grave, where he had never dared to return, for fear of being picked up in such an obvious location.

Some of his good cheer evaporated, however, when he thought again about what Sands had said in Guayabo. That he would never know true peace.

It was not true, he decided fiercely, gripping his glass hard enough to hurt his hand. He would _make_ it not true. Everything was changed, as of today. The cartels would probably always want his head, but at least now he could stop running from his own government.

Determined to stay in a good mood, he raised his glass. "To _libertad_."

Sands lifted his glass; only an inch of liquid remained at the bottom. "I'll drink to that."

El drained his drink. He could barely taste the alcohol anymore.

"So where do you go from here?" Sands asked. He made a sweeping gesture with the hand holding the glass. "The world is your oyster, El."

El gave him a sidelong look. He was not so drunk that he was ready to spill his plans to Sands. Or reveal that in fact he had no plans.

"I don't know," he said.

Sands nodded. "Okay."

The sun dropped lower in the sky, until it touched the ocean. El squinted at the brilliance in front of him, wishing he had his own pair of sunglasses. He thought about what Lorenzo and Fideo would say when he showed up at their door. He thought about Carolina, and their beautiful daughter, and how much he missed them. They would have loved the sunset. Their little girl would have played in the sand at their feet, and Carolina would have held his hand until the last light had fled the sky.

At last the sun slid beneath the waves, taking El's imagination with it, leaving only fiery streaks of color in the sky to show it had ever been there at all.

"Well!" Sands said briskly. He stood up. "I'm off."

El looked up in surprise. The vision of Carolina had been so real. It took him a few moments to return to reality, to remember where he was, and why he was here. "Can you find your way back alone?" A year ago he would not have needed to ask, but he was still not sure about this new Sands.

Sands gave him a humorless smile. He was stone-cold sober, El realized with some alarm. He wondered just how long Sands had been pouring his drinks onto the beach, leaving him to sit here and get sloshed. "Oh, I'm not going back to the hotel."

It took a moment for the words to register. Then El sat up in a hurry. "You're leaving."

"Gee, you catch on quick," Sands smirked. "Yes, El, I am leaving. _Hasta la vista_, and all that."

He got to his feet, feeling distinctly at a disadvantage when he had to look up at Sands, never mind that he was looking at a blind man. "But why?" he stammered.

"Because that was always my intention?" Sands suggested, in that tone of voice that indicated he was having doubts again about El's intelligence. "Remember, not planning to stay in Mexico?" He shrugged. "Besides, I've got some unfinished business to take care of."

"Unfinished business," El repeated. He did not like the sound of that.

Sands did not take the bait. He just said, "Yeah."

"Where will you go?" El asked. It was strange, how he wanted to prolong this conversation by asking question after question.

"Here and there," Sands said. "You just go on about your life, now that you have it back." He smiled, and for once, it was the genuine thing. "See, El, _now_ we're even."

El understood. Sands had given him his life back, just as he had done when he had taken Sands out of that prison. "We are in balance?" he asked, with just a hint of amusement.

Sands' smile grew wider. "We're in balance."

"Don't come back," El warned. Their fragile truce would only hold if Sands kept his promise. There could be no more manipulating the people of Mexico. No more involvement with the cartels or the government. No more secrets and lies.

And he wanted that truce. He wanted to be able to think of Sands as someone who might have been a friend, instead of the man who had been his reluctant enemy.

Sands just grinned at him. "Be seeing you around." He turned and began walking up the beach. He was a little unsteady, unsure of himself without El to guide him, but he kept walking all the same. Behind him, the lights of the hotels lining the beach winked in the darkness, like tiny fireflies.

El watched him go. After a while, he sat back down and stared out at the waves. A little while after that, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.


	19. Epilogue

Epilogue

In Which Many Things Are Resolved

* * *

The summer heat was never so bad when you were near the water, El thought. He wished he were there now. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and even with his hair pulled back, he felt hot and prickly all over. But it was only two o'clock, and he had several hours before he could close shop for the night.

There weren't many tourists out today. He had only made one sale, and Esteban had done no better. That was all right. Making money was nice, but it was only a fringe benefit.

He strolled through the square, picking out notes on the guitar. Some days he worked the stall, but mostly this was how he spent his days. Walking among the tourists, smiling at pretty señoritas, playing his guitar and luring them over to Esteban, hoping they might buy something.

Guayabo was never going to be a very big town. Nor would it ever be a center of culture. Those things did not matter. El felt comfortable here. He liked it here. He had a house on the beach. He made guitars and he played them and sometimes he sold one or two.

Life was good.

Maria, the woman who sold the flowers she grew in her own garden, smiled at him as he walked by. She was twice his age, and Esteban said she had a crush on him. El smiled back at her and lifted his hand from the strings long enough to wave at her.

He turned the corner, aiming for a group of teenage boys. One of them had been looking longingly at the guitars lately. Perhaps today could be the day he stopped looking, and started thinking seriously about buying.

The prickling on the back of his neck increased. El froze in tracks. He could no longer pretend that the sensation was due solely to the heat. Someone was staring at him.

He turned around, the potential teenage buyer forgotten. "Sands."

"Hey, El."

Sands sat on one of the iron benches lining the square. One arm was flung over the back of the bench; his suit jacket gaped open, revealing the fact that he was unarmed. A lit cigarette dangled from his fingers. He looked tanned and healthy, and he was smirking.

"What are you doing here?" El demanded. "I thought you were leaving Mexico."

"I did," Sands said. "Then I decided to come back."

"Why?" El asked. He hoped Sands had not decided that this was the place for his schemes, that Mexico was a country he could still manipulate to his pleasure. If that was the reason, El would escort him to the border, and make sure he never came back.

"Oh, I have my reasons," Sands said. Sunlight reflected off his sunglasses, such a natural sight that El half-expected him to pull the shades down and peer over them just so he could look into El's eyes.

But of course that was never going to happen.

El decided to let it go. Sands was not going to give his reasons for returning to Mexico, that much was obvious. At least, not until he was ready to reveal them. If indeed that day ever came.

That was all right. El could wait.

So he asked, "Where did you go?"

"I had that unfinished business to take care of, remember?" Sands blew a stream of smoke in El's direction. "San Antonio is rather lovely in April. You would have loved it."

San Antonio. El went cold all over. "What did you do?"

Deliberately Sands stubbed out his cigarette, being very thorough and precise. He meant to make El wait, and El knew it, and he hated the man in that moment.

"Did you know our dear friend Eddie Archuleta was into kiddie porn?" Sands asked. He spoke casually, like he might ask if it was going to rain tomorrow.

El's eyes narrowed. "Was he?"

"The FBI was quite pleased to get my tip-off." Sands smirked. "Everyone has a secret, El. All you have to do is find out what it is, and you'll come out on top every time."

El could not say he was sorry to hear about Archuleta's fate. Doing time in prison might make the man change his mind about a few things. Nor was he bothered by this evidence of Sands' shiny new manipulative streak. He knew Sands would never turn that twisted brilliance on him, and that was all that mattered. Others might become a target, but he, El Mariachi, was safe.

"So what is your secret?" he asked. "Since you say everyone has one."

"Oh, I can't tell you that," Sands said with a smile. "You have to find it out for yourself."

Despite himself, El smiled back. He had known Sands would respond that way, but somehow hearing the words pleased him.

"Then what is my secret?" he asked.

"Yours?" Sands took his arm off the back of the bench and leaned forward. "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

There was something predatory in the way he sat there, and El felt his heart skip a beat. Up until two seconds ago, he had thought he knew what Sands would say, but suddenly he was not so sure.

Still, he had to know.

"Tell me," he demanded. "What is my secret?"

"Why, it's simple," Sands said. "You're glad to see me again." He stood up and moved away from the bench. As El stood there, too stunned to move, he clapped El on the shoulder, and began walking away. Within minutes, he was lost among the tourists, just another visitor in town.

* * *

Later, he sat on the beach and waited. The moon was only half-full, but it provided enough light to see.

He heard their voices first. A light child's voice, and a deeper man's voice. They walked up the sand, the child leading the way, the man carrying two shadowy objects. The boy stopped when he saw El, and dipped his chin respectfully. El recognized him as one of Esteban's grandchildren. He stood up and gave the boy a small smile.

"We're here, señor." The boy looked up.

Sands set his guitar case down. He shrugged, and a thick strap slipped from his shoulder, letting a battered duffel bag thump onto the sand. He took his free hand off the boy's shoulder, reached into his pocket, and brought out a few folded bills. "Here. Go buy something for yourself."

The boy grinned and snatched the money. "_Gracias!_" He glanced again at El, then scampered off into the night.

El did not say anything. He just stood there.

"Well?" Sands said. "Are you going to invite me in, or am I going to have to set up camp in your backyard?"

The sheer audacity of the man almost made El smile, in spite of himself. He realized that he had always known it would end this way. Ever since that day in Acapulco, sitting on the beach while waiting for his life to begin again.

It had begun in Acapulco, but this was always how it had been going to end.

And then he found himself thinking, _No, it did not begin in Acapulco. It begins now. Today. At this moment._

"I don't know," he said. "Can you earn your keep?"

Sands gave the guitar case a small kick. "Want to hear?"

"Why are you really here?" El asked. "What do you want with me?" No matter what else might happen, he could never forget how he had met Sands, or the terrible week they had spent trying to outwit and outsmart each other, when an innocent boy had paid the price for their combined ignorance.

"I'll give you a hint," Sands said. "Have you ever heard the saying, 'Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer'?"

That was vintage Sands, El thought. Never revealing what he truly thought, always making El guess what he was meant. El did not mind. This was one game he was perfectly happy to play; he knew he was just as good at it as Sands was. " So which one am I?" he asked. "Your friend, or your enemy?"

Sands smirked. "That would be telling you my secret."

Perhaps it had always been meant to end this way, but El still felt some trepidation as he walked up to his front door. He hesitated a moment before pushing it open. Light spilled out onto the sand. He took a deep breath. "Come on in," he said.

Sands nodded. His shoulders slumped a little with relief. Seeing that made El feel a little better. Sands didn't have all the answers, either. He might pretend to, but he was just like El, figuring things out as he went along.

Sands slung the strap of the duffel bag over his shoulder again, then picked up the guitar case. A little unsteadily, he walked toward the sound of El's voice. When he veered off course, El kicked the doorframe, knocking the sand off his boots and letting the chains on his pants jingle.

Immediately Sands corrected his course. He walked past El and into the house.

After a moment, El followed him in, and shut the door.

* * *

Author's Notes: I must say thank-you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, particularly those who have commented on every chapter. I'm always a bit stunned that people would take the time to write a review, and I greatly appreciate each and every one.

An enormous thank-you goes to Melody for being such a wonderful beta reader. She always keeps me honest. If you find any mistakes in this story, they are completely my fault and not hers.

Last, I must admit, although this story has let me know that it is ended, part of me is not too keen on leaving El and Sands where I did. I need to begin working again on my own original writing, but I very much want to know what happens next with El and Sands. Hopefully the muse will strike again soon…. You never know!

Thanks again for reading,

Rebecca


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